The Addison Hotel
by Libellule
Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. CH8 Quote: Sam grabbed his arm, but it was the look in his eyes that held Dean in place. 'I know you got my back, Sammy,' Dean replied and crossed the salt circle.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one, Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

Author's Note: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

_What the future brings…_

It was not unlike a vision, for the same momentary feeling of disorientation, of _where am I— what's real, _hummed through him like a so-hot-it's-cold electric jolt. Only he was not bequeathed a death-vision—no promissory of someone's untimely demise. He was left with _nothing_ at all. Sam Winchester's mind was a total blank.

Well, perhaps not a _total_ blank, only devoid of the present and the moments leading up to now. There was a sense of urgency nagging at him that made him want to run, but from what or to where he did not know.

Sam forced himself to remain _calm_, and figure out where he was. He stood stock still at the top of a staircase in a very large corridor.

The lights were off. Nothing but white moonlight provided any kind of visibility; it spilled boldly from the tall windows, cutting strong shapes across the hall.

As if on the edge of a precipice, Sam peered down the stairwell shrouded in inky black shadow. He could barely make out the top tread let alone what might await him at the bottom.

Sam took a tentative step, and his world went vertigo. Raising a hand for balance, he clamped his eyes shut, willing his head to stop spinning.

Sam was certain he had felt this way before, but his brain was fuzzy and he couldn't place the _deja vu_ anymore than he could make sense of what had just happened.

An unsettling feeling roiled in his stomach. Sam blinked, trying to clear his vision and gain his bearings. Something was terribly wrong.

The air was stale and cold—too cold to be natural— prickling goose flesh along his skin. Nausea rising, Sam groped for the support of the solid oak banister at the top of the staircase.

Pieces of memory flashed back to him, rushing him like the racehorse tides charging the shores of Mont St. Michel.

The Addison Hotel. Dead guests. A restless spirit. _Rebecca._ Cold. Anger. Hands. _Dean._

It wasn't a vision. _It's real. _It was happening here and now. No, it had already happened. _I've done something_, Sam thought, turning numb with breathless panic.

The antique light fixtures mounted to the walls abruptly flickered on, dispelling the dark shadows with soft, illuminating light.

It was then that Sam saw what needed his attention. Lying sprawled at the bottom of the stairs was Dean. He lay on his stomach, his face turned away from the stairs. Blood slowly pooled around his head. He did not move.

"No—_no, Dean!"_ Sam shouted, clearly too late to do anything but stare aghast at the lifeless body of his brother.

With a kind of horrible truth, the last memory fell into place. _My hands— Dean— _Sam realized that _he_ had pushed Dean down these stairs, the same stairs that had killed Rebecca Addison and three other guests of the Addison Hotel.

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter One

_Palm Springs, California— 3 days earlier_

"Would you look at that," Dean said, whistling as he stepped out of the Impala and stared up at The Addison Hotel.

Though it had been built more than eighty years ago, The Addison was no less impressive than it had been during its grand opening in 1923.

"We're moving up in the world, Sammy," he said shooting a grin over the hood of the car at his brother.

Sam shaded his eyes, also gazing up at the looming structure. "You don't even want to stay here," Sam reminded him.

It was true. Dean had complained all the way to the five-star resort. First, he objected to paying more than triple what they normally spend on one night's lodging just to stay at the newly refurbished Addison Hotel. _(You know how many hands of poker I have to win to get that kind of cash?)_ Next he went on about the stuck up pretentious snobs who stayed in places like these _(Those kind of girls won't even look at you if you don't fan a wad of cash under their fake eyelashes)_ and lastly how there wouldn't even be any decent bars nearby to hustle a little extra cash. _(Probably have Barry Manilow on the jukebox. How's a guy supposed to clean house with freakin' Mandy in his ears?)_

But the building stood like a sophisticated woman and had charmed Dean with her splendor the moment the Impala rolled into the driveway.

"Could be fun," Dean said as he watched a blonde in a slinky white dress emerge from the back of a black town car. He ogled her curvaceous frame as she walked up the marble steps and into the grand entrance. "Show the world that the Winchesters have some panache."

Sam shook his head, dropping his gaze to hide his amused smile. "A class act, huh, Dean?"

"All the way, Sammy," Dean said. "All the way."

This job had come to them easier than most. The Addison was a somewhat famous hotel, having been a favorite playground of Hollywood's elite in the 1930s and 1940s. Many stars had retreated there, attended the gala events in the grand ballroom and the posh parties in the bar on the top floor. And being such a famous building the problems with it were widely publicized.

While searching the internet over breakfast for leads on a new case, Sam stumbled upon an article on the accidental death of a guest at the newly restored Addison Hotel.

Normally this would not have been enough to pique the Winchester brothers' interest, save for one small detail. The guest had died in the exact same manner as the namesake of the hotel, Rebecca Addison, by taking a fatal spill down the stairs.

"Hotel's been redone, could be a spirit reawakened from the renovations," Dean had said. By the time they'd finished their coffee it seemed like a straightforward, one-two punch— do a little research and then find the bones for a salt and burn. _Easy. Done._

The promise of an easy case was more alluring than either brother wanted to admit. They were both worn threadbare, diminished little by little through this stopgap hunter lifestyle, leaving behind bits of torn _self_ and unraveled Winchester fibers in their wake.

The Addison provided further escape from their most important yet still unaddressed problems. One more detour from swift-footed reality. Dean was stalling for time to wrap his head around what was happening to his little brother and how to _fix_ it, while Sam was hell-bent on saving as many people as possible in a frantic kind of pre-redemption.

Dean felt like things between them were barely holding together, as if the last few seams in the Winchester Family fabric were about to pop. He stole a sideways glance at his brother, which was all he would allow himself these days. Every time he looked at Sam he felt weight on his chest, an ocean of force pressing down on him— _I'm drowning, brother—_

How had things ever spiraled so spectacularly out of his control? For a second there, his life was almost as normal as it ever had been for Dean. _Dad and Sammy and something to hunt._

And then in the next instant everything had blown apart. His father was gone, leaving a gap so wide that Dean didn't know what to fill it with to make him whole again. The usual suspects made the rounds: booze, women and the hunt, but none of these were lasting, none of these fixed the damage festering inside of him. And he had to patch up quick because he had a job to do.

The enormity of the task his father had laid at his feet frightened him. The price of failure was more than he could pay.

_Sammy…_ His Sam. Dean could still remember when Sam was smaller than he was, when he could pick him up and Sammy would wrap his little arms around his neck and press his cheek into Dean's shoulder. He had all the answers then, and a hug from his big brother was all that was needed to soothe Sam's nightmares and woes.

_God, had things ever been that simple?_

Failure, simply, was not an option.

Dean buried this deep down, ignoring it. Time would smooth the jagged edges and he would take these pearls of pain, roll them between his fingers and hurl them into the cruel sea he was drowning in.

o0o00O00o0o

The brothers entered the hotel lobby like they had a hundred times before at a hundred other places, only this time they gave pause to their surroundings.

Italian marble stretched out beneath them, leading down a short staircase to the curved arc of the front desk. Mahogany wood paneling rose up to the ceiling where crystal chandeliers and dome light fixtures softly illuminated the lobby. Perfect symmetry flowed from the door to the desk.

Walking through the threshold had transported them back to the 1920s. Only guests checking in with designer jeans and bejeweled flip-flops betrayed the current era.

Sam was instantly conscious of the tear in his jeans, of the dirt crusted on the soles of his boots and of the dried bloodstain that no amount of scrubbing could have lifted from his shirt. If Dean felt as out of place as he did, then he was putting on an excellent show of confidence.

"You think Ingrid Bergman really stayed here?" he asked Sam with a grin.

Ambling up to the front desk with his trademark bravado, Dean fixed the clerk behind the counter with his most winning smile. The woman gave Dean the once over, her keen eyes sweeping from his hands resting on the desk to his face. She was not impressed.

Despite her disdain, she asked politely, "May I help you?"

"Yes, checking in," Dean said, laying the charm on thick, sugary-fat frosting on wedding cake thick. Perhaps this is how Dean thought affluent, jet-setting capitalists, who he envisioned stayed at The Addison, would talk. He came across more _parvenu_ than _aristocratie_.

The woman stared at him impassively, and Sam wondered how many other men tried this exact ridiculous routine to make her immune to Dean's overwhelming charisma. Sam ducked his head, trying his damnedest to hold in a chuckle.

Dean's smile wavered, plummeting groundward, a wide hole torn in his parasail.

"Name on your reservation?"

"Ahh," Dean faltered, shooting a _help a guy out, would you_ look at his brother.

The clerk glanced at him questioningly over the top of her glasses. "You do have a reservation?" she asked. Of course Dean hadn't made a reservation, never needed one before this.

"Harrison," Sam supplied, prodding his brother with an elbow, making room for himself at the counter. He placed a credit card flat on the desk. "Richard Harrison," he said, smiling at the clerk.

Sam kept his focus down at the card on the desk despite feeling his brother's gaze on him. More than once Sam had chastised Dean for his credit card scams and usually refused to use one himself unless it was an emergency. The Addison Hotel would not take a reservation without one, which Sam had made without telling his brother.

Dean grinned at the women, his shoulders rising in a little shrug. His magnetism had no effect on the clerk whatsoever. He gave an irritated sigh and Sam suppressed another smile. No matter how old they were, Dean had always been a big flirt. Though he turned all kinds of heads, he always sulked when he failed in a conquest.

"Thank you," she said, handing Sam his credit card.

"Yeah, thanks _Dick_," Dean chimed in. Sam held his tongue, though he shot his brother an annoyed look.

The woman's fingers flew across her keyboard as she looked up their reservation. "Okay, Mr. Harrison," she said with the first genuine smile he'd seen out of her. "You are all set." She handed him two card keys. "Room 705. Have a nice stay."

She rang an old-fashioned bell, signaling a bellhop to come to the desk and get their bags.

"Let's just get our stuff to the room," Dean said. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get out of here."

The bellhop was a short kid with a round face and bright eager eyes. His black hat was a size too big, which only exaggerated his youthful appearance, and his crooked nametag read "Lenny" a nickname surely carried over from childhood.

He reached for Dean's duffel, but Dean said, "It's all right, I got it." Of course the bag had weapons, holy water, rock salt and other paraphernalia the brothers might need for this hunt.

"It's my job, sir," Lenny the bellhop said smiling as if it were the best position in the whole-wide world. Sam took pity on him and handed him his backpack. He took it gratefully and led them to the elevator.

"So how long are you here for?" the kid asked while they waited for the lift.

"Just a few days," Dean said as the doors opened. He wasn't really into small talk. His failed flirting with the desk clerk hadn't exactly put him in the best of moods.

They stepped inside, all polished reflective metal and plastic push buttons, and the bellhop pressed number seven for their floor. "You're here because of the accident, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?" Sam asked, wondering how this kid might have pegged them.

"Can't say anybody's checked-in in the past week who hasn't come for a closer look," he replied. "Everybody's here to catch a glimpse of it—for the _sensation_ of it."

"We're here for the architecture," Sam said. "Not many chances to see architecture from the twenties restored to its original state."

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't disagree. While pouring through information on The Addison, Sam had developed a soft spot for the old building before he'd ever seen a picture. The hotel was rich with history—just the kind of thing Sam liked to sink his teeth into. He was quite prepared for an architecture alibi, even if Dean's face had _lame_ written all over it.

"That's a new one," the kid replied. "Most people want to know about the deaths."

"Say, you wouldn't know anything about that?" Dean asked. Sam shot Dean an irritated look. It wouldn't help their case to patronize a willing informant.

But the kid went on, oblivious.

"I know _all_ about it," the kid grinned. He was busting with excitement, couldn't wait to tell someone new about the most exciting thing that had had ever happened to him.

"Three days after the grand reopening some guy falls down the ninth floor staircase in the middle of the night—he _dies_ at the bottom. And that's not the creepy part."

The elevator doors opened and the bellhop led them out. "The strange thing is," he continued, "that a week later _another_ guy died— Same place, same way," the kid said. "You mighta noticed the media circus downstairs? Management's doing all it can to keep the public and the police appeased with two deaths in less than a month. They can withstand anything 'cept for the hotel closing down."

With a _ping_ the elevator doors opened. The kid led the way down a warmly lit hallway, passing many identical doors.

"But the strangest thing of all—this is the actually the _third_ death on the ninth floor. Way back in the twenties Mrs. Addison herself took a fatal tumble down those stairs."

"Really?" Dean questioned, prodding for more.

"Yeah, but you didn't hear this from me."

They stopped in front of 705. Sam slid the card key into the slot and pushed open the door. The kid handed Sam his backpack.

"You fellas need anything, just let me know," he said, closing the door behind him.

o0o00O00o0o

The room was— _amazing._

"Holy shit," Dean said as he dropped his duffle by the door. This was by far the nicest place he had ever stayed in. Hell, it probably was the nicest place he _would_ _ever_ stay in.

Sam stole a glance at his brother, a trace of sadness pinching his smile into a tight line. He thought of his long gone apartment in Palo Alto, comparing it to the suite. While far from spectacular, his apartment, his place with Jess, had been _his_— a place where he belonged and far better than any spot he'd lived in growing up or any of the motels he and Dean had stayed in after Stanford.

Simply put, it had been home.

All his life Sam had longed for _home_, a stationary place where he could put down roots and grow, like everybody else. As soon as he had the chance, Sam had constructed a home as if from a box of Legos, dusted off the stowed away package he'd never been allowed from his childhood and assembled one exactly as pictured on the box.

And it had been wonderful. Sam had found such solace in that, even though he had to admit that there were a few integral pieces to his happy-home Lego set that were missing.

It wasn't until after the fire, after months on the road, that Sam realized how blind he had been. _Naïve with something to prove_, Sam thought, _too smart for my own good and a prize fool in the end. _Too preoccupied with leading an exemplary normal life, too eager to get away, yearning for what he didn't have, Sam had failed to see that the man who had _always_ stood at his shoulder was all the home he would ever need.

For him, home wasn't a place—it didn't have to be. The standard definition was no longer necessary. Going home would forever mean _Dean_, even if Sam lived to be ninety and Dean ninety-four.

And it shamed him that he hadn't always known this to be so, even though it always had been. A universal law, like the Earth revolving around the sun, Dean would always be there for Sam.

Dean flopped onto the first bed with a grin that Sam hadn't seen on his face since they were kids.

"Bet there is enough hot water for both of us," Sam said, his voice echoing in the large bathroom. He ran the tap and beautiful, clean water whooshed out.

Sam poked his head out of the bathroom just as Dean jumped on the second bed near the window. "Oh, this one is _so_ mine," he said.

Sam smiled, a gentle laugh escaping his lips.

It was thrilling to finally stay in a place where they could tread barefoot on the carpet, sleep soundly without fear of mites in the mattress and where the bathroom had not only been cleaned everyday, it had been _scrubbed_ for their arrival.

The room wasn't very large, but what it lacked in size was made up for with everything else. The walls were painted with matching hues—no 70s rejected wallpaper with tacky art hanging on the walls. This suite had Monet— a lithograph grandly framed and matted with French captions _La Manneporte, 1883_.

There was even a balcony hiding behind sheer white curtains and a sliding glass door. A writing desk for Sam's laptop sat in the corner and there was even a table if Dean wanted a flat surface to clean his guns.

And the best part of all— "Sam, this place has room service!"

Staying at the Addison may turn out to be a vacation yet. Dean didn't usually bother with the hotel information, but this time he had the welcome booklet out and was reading the pages with interest.

"Swimming pools, movies stars and restless spirits," he said, "what more could a guy ask for?"

"How about some relaxation?" Sam replied. "Man, I'm beat." He knew Dean was tired too, and Sam wanted him to take a breath but he wouldn't do it unless he thought Sam needed him to. Lately, Sam had noticed Dean's frayed edges.

"Sorry, Sammy, no can do," Dean said. "We've got a job to do here." He stood, grabbing the hotel map. "You research the hotel," Dean said. "I'll try to find out what happened to those guests."

And before Sam could protest, Dean was out the door. A worried frown settling on his face, Sam wondered what was going on in his brother's head.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

So, here's my first stab at Supernatural fic—I'm projecting that it will run between 6 and 10 chapters depending on how long winded I am. :) I figured I'd better start posting this fic before the Season finale—I've only been writing it since November. And the Season Two finale will be here before we know it!

Reviews will be cherished! I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one, Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Two

_Rebecca paced anxiously along the span of the balcony, her shoes tapping a rhythmic click-clack against the tile. He would be arriving late tonight and she still did not know what she was going to tell him. _

_The truth would be best, but deep down she knew that he couldn't handle it. What a mess she had created. This was all her fault. She didn't know how it had happened, but her life was spinning out of control. _

_Rebecca stopped pacing and leaned forward against the railing, watching a set of headlights advance as a lone car approached The Addison's massive driveway._

_It was he; she knew it. Feeling a sudden chill, she returned to her room. For a moment she imagined what her life had been like as little as two years ago and she wished she could go back to that time and choose another path for herself, instead of the one that had led her here to this moment. _

_Within an hour she would be face to face with him and there were things that needed to be said, but she still did not know how to say them. _

_Her time had come to an end._

o0o00O00o0o

Despite its twelve floors and hundreds of rooms, the old hotel was like a funeral parlor, eerily calm with the constant shuffle of quiet mourners. The stillness did not echo sound like it should. It was deceptive; as if The Addison was insulated with things that could not be seen, like spirits or desires or fears or any other number of things that haunted the living.

For all its space Dean was trapped right up against that insulation, caged inside The Addison's distinguished walls— or maybe just his own mind. Rolling his shoulders, he shook off his unease. As he had told Sam, they had a job to do and Dean intended to see it through.

Dean walked slowly past the stairwell entrance on the eighth floor, trying to catch a glimpse of the accident scene. Victims fell down the ninth floor stairs and died on the landing of the eighth.

The staircase on the ninth floor wasn't blocked off, but no guests were staying on the ninth floor and only the hotel staff was allowed to enter accident scene.

There was a security guard bumbling around somewhere and it was way too early in the case for "the law" to catch onto them. Dean surveyed the area closely, gleaning what he could from observation.

A woman with an armful of bleached white towels emerged from the staircase and Dean took a sly glance over at her. She was short and round with pretty eyes and cropped dark hair. She balanced each step carefully as she navigated the stairs with her load.

Dean knew before she placed her last step that she would drop the stack of towels. It was almost comical when she tried to catch them, grasping for one while dropping two more in its place, like a character in a Warner Brothers cartoon.

She sighed in annoyance, surveying the mess and quietly chastised the towels, "Don't you know how behind I am today?"

Dean grinned—he liked her already. Seizing the moment, Dean crouched to help her gather the scattered towels.

"You look a little spooked," Dean said. "Not that I blame you," he added, glancing at the stairwell.

"Yeah, it's more than a little disturbing," she admitted.

"Tell me about it," Dean said seriously.

She looked at him, eyebrows shooting up.

"Oh sorry. Occupational hazard," he said with a disarming grin. "I'm Dean. I'm a— guidance counselor," he supplied on a whim. _Why not, right? Not such a stretch with all the jabber that comes out of Sam—been listening to his feelings for twenty-four years now. _"I'm on vacation this week."

"Oh, hello. I'm Nan," she said offering her hand. "Work with any college kids? I've got one in college— boy, is he stressed."

"Yeah, some college," he said. "Mostly emotionally ripe pre-law dropouts with a penchant for attracting trouble."

"That's pretty specific," she laughed. She was sizing him up, her brown eyes calculating if she could trust him.

"Can be," he said. "But I listen to anybody who comes to my door." He grinned again, watching her soften before him. The stress of the situation was taking its toll on her. Dean recognized that look of needing to spill your soul— Sam threw him that one every other day.

Being sympathetic was _so_ not his thing, but very necessary when trying to coax information out of witnesses without having them realize it. As Sam had lectured numerous times, _Be nice. Don't push. Sympathize. Blah, blah, blah_.

This kind of thing was more Sam's forte, but Dean was in luck with Nan for she was easy to sway. "It's a terrible thing that's happened here," he prompted, channeling his inner Sam.

"You're telling me, hun—Nobody knows what to make of it," she replied. "Police are really stumped. The whole staff's been questioned, but I can't believe that anyone here would do something like this."

_Bull's eye_. He had her—she was going to spill. "What do you think?" Dean asked.

"Well, if you know anything about the history of this place—." She stopped, eyes dropping self-consciously to the towels in her hands. "It's so silly."

Though he had only known her for a few minutes, Dean could just tell she was the eccentric sort, the kind who religiously read her horoscope or emphatically believed in feng shui or prayed to St. Anthony whenever she lost something. And she most definitely threw spilled salt over her left shoulder.

"No, go on," Dean urged. "Believe me, nothing you say will surprise me."

"Those stairs are _cursed_," she whispered. "It was just odd stuff at first, you know? When the builders came to refurbish the place they couldn't get the electricity to work right for weeks. There's still a short somewhere."

"What else?" Dean asked. "Notice any strange noises? Misplaced objects? Maybe temperature changes?"

If Nan thought he was teasing her, the notion was immediately displaced when she recognized one of the signs Dean had listed.

"No matter what, it's always cooler in there than anywhere else in the hotel. They refinished the stairs and the sealant wouldn't dry right—had to bring in big fans, took three extra days—and," she paused, glancing around before whispering conspiratorially, "there's this dark spot."

"A dark spot?" Dean repeated, frowning. That was the first he'd heard of it.

"Yeah— You won't say anything will you?" she asked him.

He flashed his _oh, I'm trustworthy, baby_ smile at her and nodded encouragingly as she continued.

"Before these accidents started happening, they ripped up the carpeting and restored the stairs to it's original hardwood— you see, there was this spot at the foot of the stairs. At first I thought it was spilled wood stain, but when they sanded everything down, not only did the spot return— it looked fresh, like something had just been spilled—like it could have been… blood. Every time they sanded it just reappeared. Didn't know what to think until I found out the history."

"The history?" Dean questioned and Nan told him what he already knew about Rebecca Addison's fatal flight down the stairs.

"The people who've died—," she began. "Well, even the witnesses can't explain it."

"There were witnesses?" Dean asked. This was new information.

"Yeah. First man who died was with this wife. She was so distraught she couldn't remember a thing about the accident. Poor woman. After the second accident, nobody knew what to think."

"There was a witness for that death too?"

"Yes. Two business partners, one fell and the other didn't. Figured it to be a fluke, but even the survivor couldn't say what happened. Nobody's sure if they were drunk or if it was fowl play."

"Are these guests still here?"

"Oh no," she said. "Lone gone by now, hun."

"Kind of an odd coincidence," Dean said. "Any suspects?"

"Suspects?" she asked with a frown. "They were accidents. Freakish and unfortunate, but accidents just the same."

"Of course," Dean said quickly, "But if they _weren't_ accidents, is there anyone around that could have a vendetta of some kind?"

"Well, I suppose _some_ suspect hotel staff, but I just can't believe that," she said. "I'd be more apt to believe that it was Rebecca Addison's ghost causing trouble than anyone on staff." She gave a little chuckle at her own joke. "But that would be crazy."

"Stranger things have happened," he said, forcing a smile. Nan's unwittingly astute observation was enough proof for Dean. This case was a good as done.

"You sure know a lot about this place," Dean said.

"I'm the assistant floor manager," she said. "It's my job to know."

She sighed, shifting the stack of towels to one arm as she glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry for going off like that. Thanks for listening to me, though. I guess I needed to talk to somebody."

"No problem," Dean said. "Listen, I'm going to be here a few days—."

"Oh, well, aren't you the sweet talker," she said, grinning at him. "I'm twice your age, hun," she teased him. "Alas, I've got to get back to work," she said with a bemused smirk.

"Room 705," Dean called after her. _Yeah,_ Dean thought, _Nan's all right._

From where Dean stood, he could see the stairs. Now, he knew that he should wait for Sam, but Dean just couldn't keep away and really, when had he ever done the smart thing when there was a more thrilling option? Opportunity and time were here and now.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, Dean ducked into the stairwell, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one had noticed.

Polished and silent, the stairs sat solidly in the dimly lit stairwell. Sparing no detail, they were beautifully embellished with carved wood detailing that all the stairwells in the old hotel had, fine points that would have been omitted had The Addison been built today.

Like a hibernating bear, the stairs were slumbering now— Dean could almost feel the slow breaths— resting harmlessly until awoken, until Rebecca was ready to strike next.

_Not gonna be a next time, _Dean thought with a shiver. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and his skin prickled to gooseflesh with the sudden temperature drop.

Light spilled faintly from other floors, but the fixtures on eight and nine were out and the window drapes had been drawn, which did nothing but fuel the mounting sense of foreboding.

_Figures,_ he thought with a smirk.

Venturing closer, Dean took hold of the railing and leaned over the first few treads, hesitant to actually step on them. He peered up at the tessellating shapes of stairs and railings as they stretched up for four more floors.

As he stepped up onto the first tread, the lights flickered on, instantly warming the enclosed space.

He looked around, the hunter scanning for signs of trouble, when his eyes fell to the floorboards, almost immediately finding the dark discoloration— the blood spot.

Dean crossed in two strides, stooping low to get a better look. Running his fingers over the mark, Dean shuddered as a thrill of iciness shot up his arm and right through the rest of his body. He had no doubt that this was the exact spot where Rebecca Addison had died.

Knowing suddenly that it was wrong to be there, he stood, barely fighting the compulsion he felt to run. It was rare that the scene of a haunting actually spooked him, but Dean couldn't deny the preternatural chill in the air or the suffocating need to escape.

_Gotta get out— _Dean thought all of a sudden, panicked, the abrupt shock of emotion forcing fright-filled, rapid breaths, the beginning of full on hyperventilation. _Whoa—breathe—_

Quickly, he fled from the stairwell. With each step taking him farther away from the scene, he felt the pressure dissipate until the feeling of panic was only a vague, uneasy recollection.

Taking the elevator down one floor, Dean sank into an armchair he found on the seventh floor lounge area. He wasn't ready to go back to the room yet, couldn't quite face Sam— not with the aftershocks of adrenaline still causing his hands to shake. And his little brother was almost as protective of Dean as he was of him. Sam would know something was _off_ with one look and Dean couldn't take any questions right now. His mind was so full who knew what would come out?

Across from his chair a large oil painting of a young woman hung on the papered wall. Dean was no art critic, but the portrait captivated him. The woman was plain, no frills, yet there was some kind of tragic beauty in her face. Dean realized it was not just a likeness staring back at him, but it was candor captured on canvas.

Her round face suggested youth, but the uneasiness creasing her features aged her. Tension coiled in her petit form and her eyes were beset with worn desperation. The honesty of the portrait startled Dean—it was not something one would expect to see in a hotel.

Dean knew that look, knew that kind of exhaustion, when you were depleted, beaten into compliance, but never acceptance, by sheer, unyielding persistence.

He was tired of supporting the world. _Atlas can have his damn ball back._ He wanted time away, time to clear his head, to collect the shattered pieces of his life that had broke apart long before that semi ground them into dust. He wanted to take Sam and _run_.

The responsibility of keeping Sam safe, a duty that Dean would never resent, had become impossibly huge. The Yellow-Eyed Demon was putting together an army, but how many were to be in the ranks and to what purpose? Would Sam be a prisoner of war or a general of that army?

_More questions than answers—_ Each second of sitting still was wasted time. _Time lost on figuring this thing out before Sam_—

Dean shook his head. He couldn't allow himself to think it.

The sitting still killed him and the constant movement killed him. Dean was floundering in the water—the more he moved the more confused he became and when he was still he sank like a stone.

_No win_, Dean thought. Life was scamming one Dean Winchester.

He'd told Sam that he just needed more time. The trouble was that no amount of time could solve this problem the way he wanted.

Dean's one selfish wish for himself was to never see Sam die—_Let him never die—_ He couldn't bear it. If nothing else, Dean knew that for certain.

Blood and sacrifice had started this war and it would be blood and sacrifice that ended it.

If it took every last trick in his book, and if need be with his last breath, Dean would make certain that the blood and sacrifice would not be Sam's.

o0o00O00o0o

The cursor blinked persistently as Sam stared blankly at the open document of case notes. He was supposed to be wrapping up his research, but his mind kept wandering back to his brother. Closing the laptop— _not like I'm getting any work done anyway_— he rose from his chair and walked to the balcony. Pulling back the sheer curtain, he watched as small figures traversed across The Addison grounds.

Vacationers walking casually, bellhops opening doors and helping with bags— These people had no idea how close they were to something awful. Sam let the curtain fall back into place. _Hell, I don't know how close I am to something awful._

He sighed heavily and glanced at the clock. Where was Dean anyway? He'd been gone close to two hours now. Sam tried not to worry about Dean, but it was like asking the sun to set east and rise west—it was backward, unnatural and impossible.

His brother rarely shared his burdens with Sam. As part of his protective nature he often shouldered more than his share. That he had finally told Sam about their father's last words— _He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy_— spoke volumes of the affliction he felt. Not that it was any small thing, having to kill your own brother. Sam would have been just as fraught had the roles been reversed.

Lately though, Sam _was_ just as worried for himself. He had to admit that he'd been thrown when Dean had said those words. Every nagging fear he had about "the plans" the Yellow-Eyed Demon had for him—those far off, faded gray plans— suddenly came screeching to the forefront in garish, inescapable Technicolor. _I'll become a monster. I'll hurt people— I'll hurt Dean—_

And that was most difficult to swallow. He'd already bitten off that jagged piece; it tasted metallic-bitter on his tongue. If his destiny truly were in the hands of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, then Sam would hurt Dean— the Demon would take perverse pleasure in it, simply because it's what Sam feared most. And once the Demon was inside him, it would know everything Sam knew, every wish, want, hope, desire, fear—everything about his brother and all the ways to hurt him.

Why couldn't Dean see what a liability he was?

Dean was too stubborn and loyal to leave him, even if it meant his own death. _Typical Winchester, through and through_. He'd proved as much back in River Grove before he knew Sam was immune to the demon virus. Dean loved him so much it defied logic and that staggered Sam a little, made his heart swell so big and made him hurt down deep because Sam still needed more from Dean—_one more thing_—

It was the most selfish thing Sam would ever ask of his brother—if he were going to go darkside, then he wanted Dean to be the one to take him down. If he was to become a weapon for the demon, then Sam wanted to self-destruct. It was the right thing to do—the humane thing. He wasn't entirely sure his brother would follow through. Anything else, any other request Sam asked of him, Dean would do without hesitation. _But this—_

Dean was sectioning himself off, tiny fragments at a time, deadening himself for the inevitable moment of impact when Sam finally turned on him, when Dean would have no choice but to end it—end _him_.

But his overprotective, big brother nature wouldn't consider it— _he just can't— _not even as a last standing order from their father. Sam just hoped he could convince Dean before his time ran out. Like writing his will— _I hereby decree that I not live one minute as anything other than human_— Sam wanted to check off the "never become a demon" box on the prearrangements form.

Sam heard the lock click and the door swung wide as Dean walked through. "Think I know how Rebecca's been awakened," Dean announced as he walked over to the beds. "She was literally swept under the rug."

"Tell me," Sam said, moving from the balcony door back to the table with his laptop.

Dean recounted what he'd learned from Nan about the renovations, about the blood spot, but he refrained to mention his own visit to the haunted stairwell.

"Well, that answers the why now question but we still don't know why Rebecca's killing these people or if there's any pattern to her victims."

"There's a slight pattern," Dean said with a grin. "She's an _exhibitionist_— there's always been someone to witness the accident. And both victims were male. What've you got?" Dean asked Sam with a nod to the open laptop.

"The hotel was designed and built in 1923 by Rebecca's husband, Warren Addison, without incident. No deaths or weirdness. The land was soundly purchased, no ancient burial grounds or anything like that. For all intents and purposes, it was a normal hotel," Sam said as he scrolled through his files.

"Anybody else die here?" Dean asked. "You know, besides Rebecca and the other two guests."

"Every hotel has its share of natural deaths. The only reported incident that has ever happened here, before the recent occurrences, was the death of Rebecca Addison, who fatally fell down the ninth floor stairs in 1928. There's not much else on her."

"What about Warren?" Dean asked.

"The guy practically vanished after Rebecca died," Sam said. "The Addison went on to become playground to Hollywood's elite in the thirties and forties. Then there's nothing on it for decades and decades." He rolled the mouse to the end of the document. "But there are lots of references made to the Historical Commission which was responsible for getting The Addison refurbished."

"Nothing surprising there," Dean said.

"I hacked into the local police database and got a look at the reports on the two victims, but the statements were all very straightforward. Nothing really to trip our radar." Sam leaned back in his chair and said, "Maybe there's nothing paranormal going on here."

"No way," Dean replied, shaking his head. "Two deaths in two weeks that just so happen to be in the same place _and _in same way as the namesake of the hotel died? That's too much of a coincidence."

"All right," Sam agreed. "But then there's got to be something we're missing. Nothing in these reports say anything about an unexplained woman being at the scene. There's been no sighting."

"The police always miss these things, Sammy. That's why we're here. Everything Nan's told me would suggest that the stairs are haunted. There haven't been any ghost sightings in the hotel, but she described the whole bit—the coldness, the trippy electricity, the blood on the floor—she even implied that Rebecca's ghost may still be hanging around."

"But nothing corporeal either now or in the past," Sam countered. "Maybe it's not Rebecca Addison."

"It _has_ to be her," Dean insisted. "We need more information."

"That's what I thought," Sam said, a grin sliding across his face. "So I called the Historical Commission and made an appointment for nine a.m. tomorrow."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

o0o00O00o0o

"Can I offer you some tea?" Millie Thompson asked, gesturing to a pot on the table in front of them.

"No, thank you," Sam said quickly. Dean shot him a scathing look. Turns out that the quiet and tranquil atmosphere of The Addison was _too_ quiet for Dean. He'd barely fallen asleep before the wake-up call. He hadn't had time to grab anything, not even a cup of coffee before Sam made them leave.

"What can I do for you boys?" she asked as she sat down in a high-backed chair.

Millie Thompson was a dried flower, a rose long since wilted, though still lovely in her old age. And she knew it. She gave them a practiced smile, eying them both with delight, and Sam thought fleetingly that this is what Dean would be like when he was sixty-eight.

"What can you tell us about The Addison Hotel?" Dean asked leaning forward on the couch. He saw a bowl of hard candy on the table and quickly reached for one of the wrapped peppermints.

"It's funny how that's all anyone wants to talk about nowadays," Millie said. "When I was trying to raise funds for the restoration, it was very difficult to find an audience."

"We're students from Sci-Arc," Sam began, "and we're working on a paper about Warren Addison." He glanced at Dean, trying to mentally will his brother into maturity as Dean noisily rolled the plastic candy wrapper between his fingers.

"My, that's a long way to come for some paper," she remarked.

"Well, it's a very important paper," Dean said with a smile, and then he crunched down hard on the candy, cracking it between his teeth.

Millie eyed them over the top of her glasses, skepticism in her gaze. But she liked looking at them, so despite the obvious lies of their story, she continued on with hers.

"They wanted to gut the place, you know," Millie said. "They thought it would be faster and cheaper and it would have been too. But The Addison certainly would not have been as splendid as it stands today. It's a historical landmark, you know. We at the commission took special interest in it."

"Why is that?" Dean asked her.

"You of all people should know," she said in a way that made them both squirm. "Why, it's Warren Addison's signature building."

"Yes, of course," Sam said smoothly. "What can you tell us about Warren Addison and his famous hotel?"

"Warren Addison was a premier architect who made his fortunes designing a slew of very successful and important buildings in New York right after World War I," she began. "He was quickly becoming the most sought after architect on the East coast. In 1922 Warren married his secretary, Rebecca, who was twelve years his junior. He took his fortune, moved cross-country with his new wife to California, and built The Addison Hotel for Rebecca in 1923 as a monument of love for her. The hotel was splendid and his biggest success."

"What can you tell us about his wife Rebecca?" Dean asked.

"Rebecca was a sad soul. She was pushed into marriage, probably too young by today's standards. She certainly didn't realize the sort of man she was marrying."

"What sort of man was that?" Sam asked. "Any personal touches we can add to the paper…"

"You have to understand, Warren loved her very much, but he was extremely busy," Millie said. "I don't think he quite knew how to handle a wife. His life had always been filled with business. And architecture can be a solitary business, spent alone with nothing but a drafting table and your own imagination."

"Did anything strange happen in those early years?" Dean asked.

"Strange?" she asked. Her eyebrows rose coyly as if she had no idea what he could possibly be referring to.

"You know, like what's happening at The Addison today?"

"Like any hotel, The Addison has had its share of natural deaths—but none so sensational as Rebecca's." She paused demurely, taking a sip of her tea. "It caused quite a stir in 1928—the wife of a famous architect dying in the building that was made for her."

"Was there any evidence of foul play?" Dean asked as he took another mint from the bowl.

"Rebecca was no saint," Millie said frankly, "but her death was a tragic accident."

Pausing, candy only partially unwrapped, Dean asked, "What do you mean, no saint?"

"Though Warren was a sweet man, he was also frequently away," Millie explained. "Living at the hotel gave Rebecca plenty of opportunity to find someone interesting. Rebecca had affairs while she was married to Warren."

"Could Rebecca have been murdered?" Sam pressed. They had to be absolutely clear about this and Millie seemed to be quite enjoying her advantage of knowledge.

"Heavens, I should think not!" Millie replied. "Who would have done such a thing?" But there was a spark of mischievousness in her eyes like she was onto their game, a hint of something that neither Sam nor Dean could quite guess at.

The brothers exchanged a glance. This interview was not exactly encouraging their restless spirit theory. "Was she suicidal?" Dean asked.

"My dear, don't you understand what an accident is?" Millie remarked. Her demeanor changed to one of much less amusement. "Your interest seems to lie more with Rebecca than Warren Addison and his architecture," she commented. "If you're looking for a big headline, then you're looking in the wrong place."

"It's an interesting story," Dean said with a little shrug and a false smile, trying vainly to smooth things over. "It's all over the news."

"I don't think I can tell you anything more that you can't find out yourselves from the media," she said. "Now if you don't mind, I have other appointments to keep today."

She stood, gesturing toward the door. "I'm sure you can show yourselves out."

They left quickly, walking the short distance to the car parked on the corner in silence.

"That old broad knows something," Dean said as soon as they got into the Impala. "She _delighted_ in not telling us."

"She's pretty sharp. She didn't buy a word of our story," Sam replied. "I thought she'd throw us out after two minutes."

"She was checking me out— she wanted to _ogle_ me," Dean said, pulling the Impala away from the curb.

Sam chuckled, "Well, what can I say, brother? You're irresistible—even to senior citizens."

"Dude, that's _so_ not funny. I feel dirty," he said with a shudder.

"She kind of reminded me of you," Sam commented with a sidelong look at his brother.

"That's it—outta my car, Sam."

"You are going to be a dirty old man, Dean," Sam said with a grin. "There's no denying it."

"If I live that long," Dean mumbled, instantly regretting the words as soon as they left his lips. Reminders of their mortality, they did not need.

"Yeah," Sam said softly. "If…"

Doing what Winchesters did best when reminded of something they'd rather not think about— _Dad— Sam's fate—_ the brothers fell silent, ignoring the weight on their minds.

Dean tapped absently on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming along to the rhythm of the song playing low on the radio. He stole a glance at his brother, who was staring out the passenger's side window in _brooding_ mode.

Feeling responsible for this bout of introversion, Dean said, "This case seems pretty cut and dry to me." He took another look at his brother as he eased the Impala through lunchtime traffic, watching to see if his distraction would take root. "Rebecca Addison's spirit is killing those people."

"But _why_ is she doing it?" Sam asked, picking up the lure willingly. "Most vengeful spirits are lashing out against their violent ends. If Rebecca falling down those stairs was not an accident, who set her up?"

"Her husband? Her lover?" Dean shrugged. "Who cares? We salt and burn her bones and it'll be all over with."

"We should know why," Sam insisted.

"She's not a person anymore, Sam," Dean said. "Can't save her, she's just a ghost."

"She used to be human," he replied, his voice rising, "Doesn't that count for something? Shouldn't that be enough of a reason to help her rest?"

Irritated, Dean sighed, not liking the undercurrents of his brother's insistence. Humoring him, he answered, "Maybe she's _bitter_—she died young, with no children in a sham of a marriage—hell, _I don't know_— don't get all bent out of shape over it."

"We need to talk to those witnesses," Sam said.

"They've both got to be long gone by now," Dean replied.

"Janet Wilson, visiting from Logan, Utah and Gary Rodriguez on business from Phoenix, Arizona," Sam supplied, looking over his notes.

"We're not going to reach them," Dean said. "Let's just swing by the cemetery tonight and be done with it."

"I'll start making calls," Sam replied resolutely, taking his cell phone out and began dialing numbers.

o0o00O00o0o

It turned out that getting a hold of the witnesses was more difficult than impersonating Homeland Security officials. After making a dozen calls trying to track down Janet Wilson, she wouldn't answer any questions about her husband's death—Sam's puppy dog eyes didn't work over the phone—and Sam was shuffled around the phone system of Gary Rodriguez's office before he was finally put on hold.

Sam was still on the phone when they pulled into The Addison parking lot, when they made their way up to the their room and when Dean checked his watch for the umpteenth time, an impatient look on his face. He'd never been good at just waiting, but Dean was more restless than usual, pacing the hotel room like a caged lion.

Putting his hand over the small microphone on the bottom of his phone, Sam said to his brother, "You don't have to sit here and wait. Go get something to eat or check out the pool or whatever..."

"You want anything?" Dean asked, hoping for a task, but Sam shook his head no. He was too engrossed in his project to think about details like eating.

Leaving their room without purpose, Dean wandered around the hotel, walking aimlessly allowing his thoughts to pull his focus.

Honestly, he was glad for a little breathing room, his own impatience was suffocating him in the small space. Sam had been carefully insistent on staying here—even going so far as to make reservations without mentioning it to him.

_Probably to give me some of that time off I wanted,_ Dean thought. _Should have kept my mouth shut for all the good it's done._

He was still a little pissed at Sam for not only running off, but also going directly into harms way. Sure, Dean had saved him from getting his head shot off, but hadn't helped Sam at all by becoming live bait for Gordon Walker's trap.

His heart somersaulted as he remembered that thrilling instant of terror when he thought Sam had been blown to bits.

_God, if Sammy wasn't so smart…_

He should have killed Gordon, although it had been very satisfying to see him hauled off in a black and white. It was also a reminder of how one wrong move could end his hunting career and his higher purpose of protecting Sam.

Let Sam save others—Dean was only interested in Sam's well being right now.

Once again Dean found himself staring up at the portrait on the seventh floor. He was drawn to the sad woman. Her painted eyes revealed that she knew the same kind of burdens that Dean did.

He could almost picture her walking about the hotel in its heyday, hair gently rounded in careless finger waves, her long dress belted just below her hips, draping elegantly like a Grecian Goddess as she paced anxiously, her high heels tapping a rhythmic _click-clack_ against the tile—

"Dean?"

He looked up, surprised at the sound of his name. It was Nan. She smiled brightly at him.

"I thought it was you," she said. "Are you waiting for somebody?"

"No," Dean said and he found the truth spilling out of him before he could consider a lie, "Just couldn't think—."

She bowed her head in understanding. "Sometimes I stop here to think," Nan said. Her brown eyes shone with kindness. "I'm a good listener, too."

Dean looked up at her and saw no judgment twisting her features, only willingness rested on her face. She was open, would allow whatever Dean had to say to run through her unfiltered. There was something about Nan that Dean liked, that put him at ease around her, that he might even dare to label motherly—

He sighed softly, trying to find the words. "Sometimes— it's too much, you know?" Dean admitted. "If I stop for a second, I'll just—," and he shook his head unable to articulate the feelings overwhelming him. Though he couldn't elaborate beyond that, he could sense that she did know, if not exactly the same way that he did.

"Sometimes all you can do is accept before you can move on," Nan said softly. "You don't have to fight every tide—sometimes where the current takes you is better than where you want to go."

_Let go…_

Nan was telling him to embrace his situation—but Dean could think of nothing more terrifying than actually accepting the possibility of losing his brother.

Dean shifted his gaze back to the portrait. "She looks like she's been through a thing or two."

Nan turned her head and surveyed the painting behind her. "Probably," she said. "But her problems were ended before she could sort them out."

Dean turned back to Nan, puzzled.

"Oh, don't you know?" Nan said. "That's a portrait of Rebecca Addison."

"That's _the _Rebecca Addison?" Dean repeated, this piece of information taking by surprise. "That's the chick who started all this trouble? She was kinda hot in a I'm-miserable-and-old-fashioned kind of way."

A little smile tugged at Nan's lips. "Yes, that's her. She actually listens quite well. Lots of guests come to this spot to reflect."

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Dean asked her, "Did any of the accident victims come here? You know, before they fell?"

"That I don't know," she replied. "But don't you worry about that. Let's not waste anymore time here," Nan said, patting him on the arm. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, letting himself be led to the elevator.

"Well, I don't know about you, Hun," she began, "but my very long shift ended an hour ago and I could use a drink. And there's no better place around than The Top."

"The Top?"

"You haven't been to our very own lounge up on the twelfth floor?"

"No," Dean replied with a frown. Come to think of it, he'd been so consumed with his own ruminations about _everything _that he hadn't even thought about visiting the bar—unusual for him.

"Well, then you're in for a treat," she said. Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially and added, "besides, come in with me and you'll get free drinks."

"Nan," he said, a grin sliding across Dean's face, "You're all right."

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Thanks for the reviews everyone! This chapter turned out to be nearly twice as long as the previous one. Go figure.

Stay tuned for more. Things will start to really heat up next chapter!

Reviews are very much appreciated! It helps to know someone out there has read this thing. I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Three

_A soft knock on the door gave Rebecca a start. Reluctantly, she opened it and accepted a note from the floor maid. _

'_Meet me in the usual place, one hour,' was scrawled in tiny print. In another time this note would have sent a thrill of exhilaration down her spine, but now the words filled her with dread. _

_She glanced at herself in the mirror, taking in her haggard appearance. He would know right away that something was wrong. She smoothed her hands over the curves of her shape, evening the wrinkles in her dress. Maybe not, maybe she could fool him still. He liked to pretend almost as much as she did. _

_She needed a drink, but knew that was the one thing that would make this harrowing situation worse. Screwing up her courage, Rebecca took a deep breath and headed for the ninth floor. _

o0o00O00o0o

"Oh, come on!" Dean shouted, hazel eyes heated, full ire directed at Sam. "What are we even doing here? This is a waste—."

"Dean, I don't think this is as cut and dry as you think it is," Sam argued. "When have we ever _not_ investigated the scene?"

Sam had him there, couldn't argue with fact. But Dean couldn't tell Sam that he had already taken a look at the stairwell without him and just the mere memory of it chilled the blood in his veins. And there was no way for Dean to explain to Sam that each second they spent at The Addison weighed him down like sandbags around his ankles. _Wasted time, so much wasted time—_

When Dean had returned to the room (with a takeout bag for Sam—he was still his big brother), he was raring to go. He'd had a long chat with Nan—not about anything important, for which Dean was grateful, but it got the gears in his head turning.

She had told him about her son who was in college— just a year younger than Sam. The way she spoke of her son with palpable pride and affection— well, Dean _got it._ He found himself sharing stories about growing up with Sam, memories tumbling out of him that he'd nearly forgotten and emotions dredged up with them that Dean didn't want to examine too closely. It made the feeling that he had to _hurry up_ and find a way to save his brother from the demonic fate that awaited him come stampeding to the forefront. Nothing was more important than saving Sam.

This meant finishing up this ghost hunt tonight—no more hanging around when a simple salt and burn would have them on the road by sun up.

Sam, on the other hand, was not so easily convinced. He hadn't gotten far with the witnesses or finding patterns in the hotel information and he wanted more time to sort all the facts out. This case had him extremely frustrated.

Why couldn't Sam understand how fast everything was spinning?

There was never time enough for anything—thoughts, actions, _Sam_— Dean ran his hand through his hair. He had run them all the way to the coast, trying to catch up, get something back— _breathing room—_

"Are you okay?" Sam's voice broke through the chaos of his thoughts. The annoyance that had marred his features moments earlier had turned to open-faced concern.

"What?" Dean asked, shaking his head. "Yeah— fine. Let's go." And he brushed past his baffled brother, heading towards the eighth floor.

(o0o00O00o0o)

"We need to get in that stairwell," Dean said as he tracked the night watchman's slow, measured steps away from the entrance.

Their best chance was right now— late at night when most people were asleep and the hotel staff was at its fewest.

Fire code prevented the stairwell from being locked. So breaking in wasn't an issue. Getting past the night watchman was, albeit a minor one.

The watchman walked a circuit, pacing the eighth floor corridor a few times then walked to the other end and entered the right staircase walking up to the tenth floor to scope out the traffic up there before coming back down and repeating the process—without actually stepping foot on the stairs where two people had fallen. At quarter to one in the morning, there was hardly anyone walking about. The entire route took the guard eighteen minutes.

Nobody was allowed on the ninth floor except for hotel staff and even they were limited. The rooms on that floor were left vacant after the second accident, but in another day or so they would be reopened to the public.

As soon as the guard rounded the corner, Sam and Dean entered the left stairwell. They had about ten minutes to check the place out before the guard peeked his head into the left tenth staircase and looked down.

There was nothing remarkable about the ninth floor stairs, nothing that distinguished it from the other stairwells in the hotel aside from the fact that people had died there— and the overall creepy vibe emanating from the place.

Dean flipped on the EMF as he said, "Let's get this thing over with."

Sam watched him walk slowly across the eighth floor landing, moving the meter back and forth searching for hot spots.

_Coming here was a mistake_, Sam realized. He thought he was giving Dean what he needed—a break. This hotel was the nicest place they had ever stayed in but its luxury neither put Dean at ease nor made him feel restful. In fact, his complete restlessness had never been so apparent while working a case.

It was a subtle nuance, like the faint sound of buzzing bees in a garden, you know they are there; you just can't seem to spot them until they're upon you, stinging you right into anaphylactic shock.

Nobody on this earth knew Dean better than Sam did and Sam _knew_ without a doubt that _something_ odd was going on with his brother.

Pillars of Sam's life were crumbling right before his eyes. He didn't know what he would _be_ tomorrow and his brother, his one constant, and the one person he could count on, was three seconds from bolting. And Sam didn't know _why_— Dean would just as soon pretend that nothing was wrong, would tell him _I'm fine—everything's fine_ even with his guts ripped out and spilling all over the ground.

It occurred to Sam that they had taken this case for all the wrong reasons.

Suddenly the EMF squealed to life, all noise and flashing lights. "It's goin' crazy," Dean whispered.

Crossing to where Dean stood, Sam said, "She must be one powerful spirit to get a reading _that_ high." He stooped, tracing his hands along the floor, hovering over but not touching an obvious discoloration in the wood. "Look at this— the blood spot?"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. He crouched beside his brother, passing the EMF over the spot—the meter became more responsive as it neared the mark.

Sam noticed that Dean was holding his breath and his hand trembled as he held the device. Dean must have realized it too for he quickly stood, snapping the meter off and shoving it into his jacket pocket in one motion.

"We should go," Sam said, suddenly feeling unsettled. "Time's almost up," he said, an excuse, but a reasonable one Dean might listen to.

The lights in the stairwell on eight and nine flickered out, shrouding them both in shadow. Sam looked above him, the faint light from several floors above falling dimly on the top of the treads, just enough light to see that Dean had made his way over to the stairs.

"Just a sec," Dean said. He ventured up a few steps, wanting to get a better look at the top.

"_Dean_," Sam hissed. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Relax— not gonna fall _up_ the stairs," Dean said, but he wasn't looking at Sam. His attention was on the ninth floor landing.

"Maybe not, but the way back down is quite a trip," Sam said. He had a bad feeling about this. "Dean, please." _This is bad—we need to get out._

He broke focus and turned to Sam. "Are you scared, Sammy?" Dean asked with an impish grin, the kind of daredevil smile that always meant trouble.

_Yes_, Sam wanted to shout. _I'm scared for you._ "No, but it doesn't feel right to me," Sam said. _Don't do something stupid because I saw you shaking. You don't have to prove anything to me._

"You're the one who wanted to come here in the first place," Dean accused.

"_Please_," Sam implored. His voice brimmed with genuine pleading, "Let's just get back."

Maybe there was a manic look in Sam's eyes to match the manic feeling tightening his throat, but for whatever reason Dean listened to him.

"Okay, okay," Dean placated, going back down the few steps he'd ventured. "But we have to go dig her up tonight." He grinned again and added, "Never known you to be such a wuss, Sammy-boy."

"Shut up," Sam said. They heard the door on the floor above them open and they both scrambled out to the eighth floor corridor.

Dean had often teased him about his having "the shining" but Sam had learned the hard way not to doubt his intuition.

The potential for disaster lurked in that stairwell. Two people, three if you counted Rebecca, had met fate there. Sam had wanted to check the scene out but he hadn't been expecting such a strong feeling about the place.

"We ready to salt and burn?" Dean asked him, that gleam of pre-hunt excitement lighting his eyes.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam said. He checked his watch. _12:03 a.m. _There was still plenty of darkness for them to work in.

"Looks like we'll make checkout in the morning," Dean said.

Through his thorough research, Sam already had the location of Rebecca Addison's grave and with Dean driving they made it to the cemetery before 1 a.m.

The temperature had dropped considerably after sunset and Sam shivered as he got out of the Impala, wishing he had thought to grab his sweatshirt. Dean didn't seem bothered by the cold. His jaw was set with determination; he was going to get this thing done tonight no matter what. They wandered past row after row of headstones, Sam with his handwritten notes and Dean with a flashlight as they searched for the grave in the older section of the cemetery.

"Let's salt and burn this bitch," Dean said as they finally came upon the Addison Family plot. He swung his shovel from off of his shoulder and launched the blade into the grass.

Frowning, Sam set down his backpack with the rock salt and lighter fluid and took up a shovel. He paused before joining Dean in the task of exhuming.

Rushing through a case just wasn't like Dean. Dean was a lot of things, but careless about a job was not one of them. Sure, this one seemed pretty cut and dry. Nevertheless Sam couldn't help but worry about his brother. His haste had been more than apparent and if Sam didn't know any better he'd say that Dean was spooked.

"_Hey_—get the lead out," Dean said as a shovel-full of dirt went flying past Sam's shoulder.

Sam started to dig.

Nothing was ever so simple—this was a many layered problem just beginning to rear its ugly head. This was about their father's death, about his last order to Dean, about Sam's supernatural ability, about the yellow-eyed demon, about every last burden piled on Dean's broad shoulders.

He stopped digging, staring at his brother. "Dean—."

"Sam, I _swear_ to God," Dean stopped, stabbing the shovel into the dirt. "If you don't just shut up and dig I'm going to clock you with this shovel and finish the job myself."

Dean didn't wait for Sam's reply; he continued to dig.

Sighing softly, Sam turned his shovel to the earth. The brothers worked silently side by side, falling into a familiar rhythm. Not another word was spoken until Dean's shovel hit the top of the coffin. "Finally," he said, relief filling the whispered word.

He pried open the casket while Sam reached for the bag of rock salt. They were face to face with the withered corpse of Rebecca Addison. She'd been a small woman, petit, no taller than five foot three. In such a decomposed state, she seemed even smaller, nothing but grayed bones and dust particles with fragments of cloth and hair. It seemed impossible that she could cause so much damage, even though Sam knew size had nothing to do with how much carnage one could inflict.

They climbed out of the grave. Sam dusted the bones with salt, Dean following behind him with lighter fluid.

"Goodbye, Rebecca," Dean said as he tossed a burning Addison Hotel matchbook into the grave. Her bones ignited and the brothers watched silently as she burned until the flames fizzled out completely.

o0o00O00o0o

A path of bright sunlight cut across Dean's face. _Warm-white-bright._ He rolled over, away from the windows, and curled around his pillow. Staring bleary-eyed at the unmade bed across the room, it took an unfocused minute before Dean realized that Sam was not in that bed.

He lay still, listening for the sounds of Sam moving about in the room. Hearing none, Dean twisted around to read the digital clock. _7:12 a.m_. After a night of grave digging, it was way too early to be up and about.

_Probably went for coffee or something_, Dean thought as he sat up, slowly stretching his aching body. _Hope it's an extra large 'cause nothing less than that is gonna cut it today._

Still, it was odd that Sam would have left the room without so much as a note. Detail orientated, Sam was the note writing sort; he made lists, probably would have an itinerary if he ever went on vacation and had he been in law school would definitely have a Blackberry set to remind him every five seconds of every little thing.

All of Sam's things were as he had left them after they'd finally crashed to their beds at half past four in the morning, so the fleeting thought that Sam was packing the Impala was quickly dismissed.

He had no reason to worry save for the knot twisting in the pit of his stomach.

Feeling a little unsettled, Dean called Sam's phone, but got his voice mail. He didn't bother to leave a message. _Where the hell is he?_ Dean thought. He wanted to check out of the hotel today—get moving finally.

Muffled voices and the sounds of shuffling feet could be heard through the thin walls. Dean listened again. There was a lot of commotion in the hall for just after seven in the morning. A twinge of worry sprouted within him. No Sam, a disturbance outside and twenty-four years worth of experience told Dean that this was his kind of problem. _Sam_ and _trouble—_ they were a pair in tandem.

Scrounging around the room for last night's pair of jeans and his dirt encrusted boots, Dean dressed quickly, shrugged into his jacket, then reached for his phone again as he hastened from the room.

_Sam will be the death of me,_ he thought.

The noise was coming from the floor above—the eighth floor. Dean headed towards the stairwell when a familiar face rounded the corner. It was Lenny the bellhop who had shown them to their room. The kid looked upset.

"Hey, what's going on?" Dean asked him. He had his phone out, his call still unanswered. _Come on, Sam._

"There's been another accident," he said.

"What?" Dean asked, his eyes wide. "That's impossible."

"Another guy fell down the stairs early this morning," he said. "I don't really know the details—just they're taking someone away on a stretcher."

Dean stared at the ringing phone in his hand and his heart made an insane leap in logic. _God, Sam, pick up— pick up!_

"Have you seen my brother?" Dean asked.

"No, sorry," the kid replied. "Hey listen, I have to go. Gotta report to my manager, find out if I can do anything."

There was no getting around, people were milling about trying to catch a glimpse of the latest spectacle and the stairs on this side were temporarily blocked for medical personnel.

Why did Dean ever let Sam out of his sight? He hurried to the elevators, jabbing the _up_ button repeatedly. By all rights Dean should put him on a leash, like a toddler-tether on some overly rambunctious two year old trying to escape his mother's orbit.

In some way Dean knew he was overacting, but the Benders and Gordon Walker gave him all the justification he needed to want to bind Sam to his side. _Come see the Amazing Conjoined Winchesters_.

He was supposed to keep Sam safe. What a bang up job he was doing of it.

The elevator doors opened on eight and more people in sleepwear and bathrobes were loitering in the halls, venturing out of their rooms to see the latest accident. Dean forced his way through the throng of people, nearly expecting to see Sam splayed at the bottom of the stairs as victim number three. He wasn't of course.

Anguish delayed, he saw the paramedics wheeling away a stretcher, but he was too far back to tell if the body on it was Sam.

Dean turned, pushing his way back through the people—

And there—_there_ was his brother, hands thrust into his pockets, head ducked slightly as he walked solemnly towards him. _Perfectly fine._

Relief—_thank you_—flooded him.

"Dean—," Sam began.

The second he was within arms reach Dean gripped him by the arm and pulled him around, nearly giving him a shake for good measure.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean demanded, stepping into Sam's personal space, annoyance not quite masking his concern. Swiftly, his eyes swept over him, silently assessing for damage, the same way he'd done a thousand times before whenever they'd been separated unexpectedly.

When he was satisfied that Sam was unharmed, Dean released him and asked, "Why the hell weren't you answering your phone?"

"I was being questioned by the police," Sam said, annoyance at his brother's mother-henning evident in his tone.

"_What?"_ Dean asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

"I found the body," Sam said. "I couldn't sleep— thought I might as well get some coffee, but I couldn't help myself and went to check out the stairwell. That's when I saw her at the bottom."

"Saw _her_?"

"Yeah," Sam said. Then his voice softened as he said, "Dean, it's Nan."

"_What?"_ Dean was a broken record this morning.

"It was Nan who fell down the stairs. She wasn't dead when I found her, but it doesn't look good," Sam said. He was quiet for a moment, no doubt wondering how best to put into words whatever he was thinking. "We messed up somewhere."

"Yeah, _no shit_," Dean spat. Several heads turned in their direction. Running a hand through his hair, Dean made an effort to lower his voice. "We burned her fucking bones— Rebecca should be toast."

"Maybe, it's not Rebecca."

"Who the hell else could it be, Sam?" Dean said. He turned away and swore.

"Shouldn't we at least check out the possibility?" Sam asked. "Let's talk about this upstairs." He said, noting the crowd and the brothers headed back to their room.

o0o00O00o0o

"I just don't get it," Dean said, throwing his jacket onto the bed.

Nan's fall broke nearly all the patterns they had established. The first two victims had been men, those two accidents had happened late at night, and they both had been pronounced dead at the scene. Nan had fallen just before 7 a.m. She had been whisked away to the hospital, critically injured, but not dead.

The only thing that stayed true to pattern was the witness at the top of the stairs. And the distraught housekeeper didn't know what had happened, just like all the others. Sam had had more input for the police than she did.

"We salted and burned those bones," Dean said again. "Rebecca should be nothing more than a memory." He was angry. Frustrated. He'd liked Nan. Dean had felt a connection to her, like an ally, someone who understood the same pressure he felt. And Nan had been cool.

_Don't talk like that, _Dean chided himself. _She's still cool._

"We must have missed something," Sam said.

"I messed up, alright Sam?" Dean snapped.

"That's not what I was saying," Sam said with deliberate patience.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean muttered.

"It mustn't be Rebecca—," Sam began.

"It _has_ to be her, Sam," Dean shouted. He paced the room, feeling the reins of control slipping just a little bit further out of his reach. "Who else could it be?"

This was supposed to be an open and shut case. _Easy. Done._

"I don't know who else," Sam said. "That's the point, Dean. We don't know—_we don't even have a clue_."

Angrily, Dean turned to face his brother. "Something you want to say to me?"

He could see now that Sam was angry too— his eyes dark, mouth drawn into a tight, livid line.

"Man, what is up with you?" Sam demanded. "You haven't wanted to work this case right from the beginning."

"Oh, that's just great," Dean said with a dangerous chuckle. "We worked this case together and you thought up until this morning that this hunt was a no frills salt and burn, same as me. I didn't hear anything to the contrary out of you. So don't you be telling me that _I_ haven't worked this case right."

"Nan's accident may have been completely preventable if we'd have dug a little deeper, followed all the angles. We could have _saved_ her," Sam said, and a little bit of mania slipped through the cracks there, his inner demons seeping out. "But you've wanted nothing but to _leave_ since the moment we got here," Sam accused, the truth in his words slashing sudden and deep.

The truth stung, but Dean couldn't deny it— couldn't deny that the mantra _wasted time_ wasn't running through his skull at all hours of the day and night—that nothing would make him happier than putting The Addison Hotel in the Impala's rear view.

"What's going on? Talk to me, Dean."

"I don't have anything to say to you," Dean said, heading towards the door, "except for maybe a few a choice words."

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Thanks for the reviews everyone—they are very much appreciated! Drop me a line if you have questions.

Everyone excited for the first part of the season finale? I am! I'm also nervous as all get out.

I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Four

_The truth came easier to her than she thought it would, just tumbled out unchecked, like water spilling over a fall. _

_He was angry, just like Rebecca knew he would be. Endings were always difficult. She was frightened of his anger, of the different person it created, but in a way she felt she deserved it._

_Which was why she didn't try to pull away when he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. She was scared, but she knew it was the right thing; finally, she was on her way to righting her course. _

o0o00O00o0o

An array of documents littered the table in front of him, but Sam was not paying attention to the paperwork. His eyes were unfocused, staring off in a daze.

He'd told himself that he'd be able to gain better purchase on this case without Dean, but hour after hour Sam found that his mind was restless, inevitably returning to dwell on his brother—his stupid, bull-headed, impetuous, big brother.

Sam sighed. That wasn't fair, really. Sure, Dean was stubborn, but he had his reasons.

Dean had always taken twice what he deserved. Sam suspected this started because he was the older one. When Sam was a kid it had always been, _Can I have another one for my brother?_ And when Sam had been bullied, no matter who it was or how many, Dean had stepped in, _you wanna pick on a Winchester, try picking on me,_ taking on twice the fight.

But this extended to other things as well— with woman, Dean's daring got him twice as far or slapped twice as hard as he deserved. Dean drank for two, could knock back enough shots for both of them. But in a fight, Dean would take twice the thrashing if it meant sparing Sam.

And sometimes Dean wanted all the credit for things they had both done. And sometimes he wanted all the blame. Or all the grief. Or all the punishment.

He wanted it all— for Sam— to protect him.

_You can't run from this and you can't protect me,_ Sam had said once. _I can try_, Dean had replied.

Dean's love was shaped this way, elusive and well hidden, but boundless and staggeringly strong when faced with it.

To Dean, Sam would be always _his little brother_— even though Sam hadn't thought of himself in that way in a long time. They were as equal has they had ever been, save for this one blind spot Dean seemed to have.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Sam wondered when their lives had become so complicated? Everything was a shade of gray now. All things blended together into one haze of uncertainty.

Sam needed to get out of here, to clear his head. It was just after 11 a.m. and he hoped that maybe he'd think better on a full stomach. Leaving the hotel room, Sam walked to the elevator and jabbed the call button.

As the doors opened, he thought about calling Dean. He didn't like being on the outs with his brother, no matter how small the scuffle. He hadn't intended for any of his reasoning to sound like accusations, but his frustration with Dean made them all come out that way.

The elevator opened on the twelfth floor and the scent of cooking food wafted lazily towards him. Sam walked through the restaurant doorway, greeted only by soft jazz music playing low, and he immediately saw the familiar shape of his brother hunched over a bar stool. There were a few families in the dining room, but only Dean sat at the bar.

Sam shouldn't have been surprised to see Dean there, but he was. A slight smile tugged at the corner of Sam's mouth— not even eleven-thirty and Dean had a beer and a world-weary slouch. _Oh, Dean._

His brother didn't look up as Sam approached, but he had to know he was standing there.

"This place is pretty classy," Sam observed, looking around the dimly lit restaurant. "I'm surprised they let you in," he teased gently.

"Oh, ha-ha," Dean said into his beer glass, and then a sly sideways glance, "Bitch."

Sam smiled more than he probably should for such an epithet. "Jerk."

And just like that the tension eased between them.

"Well, it's not our usual kind of place," Sam said, sitting up on the stool next to his brother, "but at least the music's not Barry Manilow."

"It's Tony Bennett," Dean said. "Best of the crooners— classiest one of the bunch, that's for sure."

Sam blinked. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"What?" Dean asked, mock-offended. "I can't know something?"

Sam's eyebrows rose skeptically.

"You'd be surprised by how many girls dig this retro-pop-standards stuff," Dean said. And he paused, which Sam recognized to be hesitation, before adding, "I think Mom did."

Sam held his breath. This was one of those moments where if he didn't make a sound, didn't make his presence known, Dean might unearth some jagged _thing_ that he kept buried deep down.

"Dad used to get irritable when this song would play," Dean said. _This_ song was _I Left my Heart in San Francisco_. "I think I remember being with Mom in the kitchen, dancing around to this kind of music. Not sure, though. Could be somethin' I imagined after I noticed that Dad—."

And he stopped there, the memory too rough to dig up completely. Sam never knew when these little gems would breach, but it always seemed to be when Dean was at his breaking point, when he couldn't hold all his seams together anymore.

Sam consumed these moments like a ravenous dog, but not without compassion for his brother and how hard it was for him to be keeper of these memories of _before_.

Saying nothing was the best thing Sam could do, and so he was quiet a moment before changing the subject and starting in on the case.

"If it is Rebecca," Sam began, "then she had to be tied to something other than her remains."

Dean thought for a minute and then said, "Well, it could be anything, but I'd put my money on the stairs."

Sam looked up. "Like the Hookman to his hook."

It was so _obvious_ he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it immediately. Their heads hadn't exactly been in the game, both struggling with their inner conflicts. Which was exactly why they were taking a true break after this and Sam would hogtie Dean if need be, but they were going to _talk_ after this hunt.

"Exactly like that," Dean said. "She died there—hell, her blood was shellacked onto the wood."

"So… how do we get rid of her?"

Dean looked at him expectantly, "Same way we roasted the Hookman."

"Dean, we cannot set fire to the hotel!" Sam roared.

"Accidents happen," Dean replied with a shrug. "They need to practice their fire escape plan sometime."

"I'm going to pretend that you didn't just suggest that." Sam sighed. "I dunno, Dean—still feels like we're missing something. This whole case is weird," Sam said rubbing his forehead in frustration. "Remember how the EMF went crazy?"

"You'd expect her to be corporeal with that high a reading," Dean said, "but as far as we know, she's not… Maybe Rebecca's a death omen?"

"Maybe," Sam said, sounding unconvinced. "Doesn't fit, though. Nan never said anything about seeing Rebecca?"

"Nobody ever mentioned seeing her," Dean replied.

"I want to know _why_ she's killing people," Sam said.

Dean sighed. "Usually vengeful spirits want retribution for something."

"But why is she vengeful?" Sam asked. "We just assumed that she wants to get back at the world."

"So, if she's not here for revenge, then she's got some other kind of unfinished business," Dean reasoned.

"And why is there always a witness?" Sam posed. "I mean, if you wanted to kill people you certainly wouldn't want anyone watching."

"None of the supposed witnesses could tell us a thing about the accident, though," Dean said. "What if Rebecca's trying to tell us something but it's not coming out right?"

"We need more information."

o0o00O00o0o

"Mrs. Thompson," Sam said as soon as the matured woman had answered the door. "We need your help." With no other place to turn, the brothers went back to the Historical Commission, hoping that Millie would tell them more about The Addison Hotel.

"I already told you boys about the hotel," she said. But she didn't close the door; she waited.

"We need a bit more—," Sam began but was promptly cut off.

"Don't waste my time— I'm old if you haven't noticed," she said. "Tell me what you really want or go away." She eyed them shrewdly. "You can start with your real names."

Dean glanced at his brother before saying, "I'm Dean and this is my brother, Sam. We're investigating a volatile spirit haunting The Addison Hotel. We're pretty sure it's Rebecca Addison. We just can't figure out—."

"I _knew_ you weren't architects— especially you," she said pointing at Dean. "Did you see her? Were you able to talk to her?"

Mouth open, eyes-wide, Sam was _stunned_ by her reaction. He figured she'd be slamming the door in his face, not asking for details of the haunting. Millie Thompson was full of surprises.

"I always wanted to meet Rebecca—I had a séance conducted and everything, but she never came," Millie explained. "Mum always spoke so fondly of her."

"Your mother knew Rebecca?" Sam asked.

"Knew her? You silly thing—Rebecca was my mother's big sister." She smiled deviously. "Didn't I tell you?"

"No, you forgot to mention that," Dean said sourly.

"Well, come in, come in," Millie said opening the door wide. "Sam and Dean, huh? Where's Frank?" she teased, her eyes twinkling. "Your parents fans of the Rat Pack?"

"Ah, I don't think so," Sam said, but in light of Dean's earlier insight back at the hotel bar, he considered that maybe his parents had liked Sinatra long ago in that mythic _before_ period Sam knew little about.

They situated in that same room where they had first discussed The Addison, Sam and Dean taking the couch while Millie settled into her high-backed chair, but this time there was less pretense in the air all the way around.

"So you think Rebecca is killing the guests?" Millie began conversationally as if this were a morning tea with the Historical Commission. "That doesn't sound like her."

"Spirits aren't always like their living counterparts. We think it's Rebecca causing these deaths—we just don't know why… or how to stop her," Sam said. "We were hoping you could tell us more about Rebecca."

"I'll do you one better," Millie said. She hobbled to the large bookshelf in the room, hands hovering over the many volumes until she pulled out a thick, leather bound book with no writing on the spine. "I'll let her tell you herself."

And she handed the journal of Rebecca Addison to Sam. "They didn't find her diary for years. Warren was a wreck after she died— had all her things dumped into boxes and shipped to my mother. I've made Rebecca my hobby— I've collected everything I can about her. She meant so much to Mum."

"Do you know why she might have unfinished business?" Dean pressed.

"Well, aside from her life being cut short—I just don't know."

"Could Rebecca have been murdered?" Sam asked again.

"She died eight years before I was born. I was always told it was an accident, but I know that there wasn't an investigation. It was obvious that she died from a fall and no one was implicated."

"What about her husband?" Sam suggested. "She was cheating on him."

"Warren wasn't there when she died. He was making plans for the first hotel-casino in the Las Vegas strip. He planned to move them to a house, a surprise for Rebecca. When Rebecca died, he just couldn't take it— sold the Nevada contract to Frank Detra— and Warren never built another hotel again."

Millie looked genuinely saddened by the loss of what may have been a very happy life for her Aunt and Uncle. "Besides, he loved her despite her flaws. I met Uncle Warren a few times when I was a kid and he only told me wonderful things about my Aunt Rebecca. You know, he had flowers put on her grave every week until the day he died."

"Can you think of _anything_ that Rebecca might have been hiding?" Dean asked.

"I don't think Rebecca ever told him about her indiscretions, but he must have suspected. Rebecca tells a lot in her diary without being specific— that's how we know she was involved with someone— she never names him, though."

"Thank you for your help, Mrs. Thompson," Sam said. "I'll make sure to get this back to you when we're done."

"Oh, these might also be helpful to you," she said and handed him two other leather bound tomes. "1923 to 1928 and 1929 to 1934— The first ten years of guest registers and reservation logs for The Addison Hotel."

Sam scribbled his cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. "In case you think of anything that might help us."

She nodded kindly. "You must tell me if you see her," she said. "And good luck—if you need anything, do let me know. I may be an old lady, but I still have some sway at The Addison."

o0o00O00o0o

The brothers set to work, not quiet knowing what they were looking for. Dean skimmed through Rebecca's diary while Sam looked through the guest registers, searching for the names of frequent guests.

Dean flopped down on his bed, propped some pillows up behind him and reached for the diary. He turned the leather bound book in his hands gently. The pages were soft with age and yellowing around the edges. He held the book reverently, knowing the amount of _self_ one pours into a journal. Flipping the pages back to front with his thumb, he stopped when he came to the last entry penned in tiny rows of script.

_November 14, 1928 – He's coming here today. I must tell him the truth, but I don't know how. I can't wait any longer. I've wasted enough time as it is. In less than four months everything will change whether I'm prepared or not. I've nearly ruined a good man, but after tonight I will be taking steps to atone for my mistakes. _

"Looks like she was going to come clean, tell her husband about the affair," Dean said looking over at Sam who was spread out across the table, fixatedly hunched over the register, scribbling down notes. "She probably died before she had the chance."

"Does she give a name?" Sam asked. "Or maybe an initial? 'cause I could really use a hint."

"Keep looking, Sherlock," Dean said. He shut the diary and opened it again, this time looking for the earliest entry. He began reading the life of Rebecca Addison starting with the first passage dating all the way back to 1923.

They had been reading their respective volumes for the better part of an hour, each engrossed in their own tasks when Dean made a disgusted noise and turned the diary over on its pages atop the bed.

"Man, this guy was a real dick," Dean said, turning his gaze out the balcony doors.

"Who was?" Sam asked, looking up from his work.

"Whoever her mystery lover was," Dean replied. He turned towards Sam, irritation written in his features. "If I read one more entry about how that inconsiderate bastard made her cry—."

"Not getting wrapped up in it or anything, are ya Dean?" Sam said with a slight smile. It was just like Dean to be protective.

"She's pouring her heart out here, Sam," Dean defended, gesturing to the open book. "You'd have to be pretty cold _not_ to get involved."

"Big softie," Sam mumbled.

"Shut up," Dean snapped, but not without affection. He returned to the diary, skimming along the next few entries. It was quiet for all of five minutes before Dean said suddenly, "Damn it, Rebecca."

Sam looked up at him, frowning. "What is it?"

"She's made up with somebody, but she doesn't say if it's her husband or if it's the other guy."

"Read it to me," Sam said.

"'_Things are better today'_," Dean read. "_'He and I have reconciled.'_"

"Oh," Sam replied. "That is pretty vague."

"Ya think?" Dean retorted. "Have you come up with anything?"

"There so much data to go through," Sam said, running a hand through is hair. "Things are starting to take shape— I'll get back to you."

An hour and a half of reading later Sam said, "I've come up with a few names of people who habitually frequented the hotel. We have a clear-cut winner— one Robert Barry. This guy has stayed in this hotel more than anyone between 1925 and 1928. After November of '28, he never returned here, while other frequent guests did."

"Check against the reservation log," Dean said. "Try the week Rebecca died."

Sam flipped back the pages. "Checked in November 14, 1928 and out the next day, which was his last recorded stay at the Addison." Then Sam paused, brows drawn together with interest. "Huh… he stayed in the same room for the majority of his visits including his last one… room 917."

"Isn't that right by the ninth floor stairs?"

"Yes."

"I'd say we found her guy," Dean said. He shook his head saying. "I think she was murdered."

"You think Robert Barry killed her," Sam supplied.

"Whoever her mystery beau was— he seems pretty aggressive," Dean replied, holding up the diary. "That's what Rebecca found so alluring. Warren wasn't like that. He was a bashful kinda guy— sorta like you."

"I'm not bashful," Sam insisted defensively.

"Yeah, whatever dude," Dean said. "Trying saying that next time without turning red."

"So if I'm bashful, which dwarf are you?" Sam asked. "'cause if I had to guess, I'd say you're somewhere between Dopey and Grumpy."

"I'm the prince of this outfit," Dean said with satisfied grin.

"Well, clearly, you aren't the brains," Sam replied. Sam easily ducked the pillow hurtling towards his head.

After ten minutes of brother baiting which ended in a truce after Dean almost knocked over Sam's laptop with another hurtling pillow and Sam threatened the paint job on the Impala, they formed a plan to rid The Addison of Rebecca's spirit.

They figured that Rebecca was trying to tell them something and the best way would be to just come right out and ask her. Once she told them whatever it was that was keeping her here, she would let go and move on.

"We can't just wait for her to reappear," Dean said. "We need to evoke her."

Sam agreed, but felt uneasy that this was still just their best guess. They didn't know what would happen once they summoned her, if she would cooperate with them or turn homicidal.

As a back up plan Dean suggested that they at least try to burn out the blood spot on the floorboards, if not the entire staircase. Begrudgingly, Sam agreed, but really only to appease his brother. If it came down to that Sam was still going to try to talk Dean out of it. Really, they didn't even know if burning the spot would work and once they tried both these options they were out of ideas.

"I think she wants her killer to be known," Dean said, "then she'll be at rest."

"Seems that way," Sam agreed, although he still couldn't put is finger on the detail that wasn't quite right.

o0o00O00o0o

They waited until nightfall to get supplies from the Impala. Strains of live music, the unintelligible rumble of voices with the clink of cutlery against fine china drifted through the night as Dean opened the trunk and propped open the false bottom with a shotgun.

There was some sort of party going on outside amid the vast gardens adjacent to the pool area. A huge tent had been set up with round tables and hanging lanterns that swayed gently in the breeze.

"Think there will be fireworks?" Dean asked Sam looking around carefully for observers before he loaded rock-salt rounds into a shotgun.

Sam glanced up from the spell book he was perusing. "I don't know, why?"

"It'll make for good cover in case we need to be forceful," Dean said, gesturing to the weapon. Shooting off a gun in the hotel would be the fastest way to cause panic and bring suspicion upon them. But Dean wasn't about to face a potentially volatile spirit without a means to dispel it.

He put the gun into his duffle bag, followed by a canister of rock salt and an iron knife. "What do we need for the rite?"

Sam rattled off a short list of supplies, which Dean located in the trunk and shoved into the duffle bag. Ghost conjuring was actually pretty straightforward if you knew what to do.

"You can do it, right?" Dean asked, glancing from the book to Sam.

"Yeah, shouldn't be too difficult," Sam said, tucking the book under his arm. "We'll use her diary as a focal point to draw her to us."

Dean nodded as he closed the trunk and swung the duffle bag over his shoulder. They walked together in silence across The Addison grounds, music and laughter from the party growing as they approached the entrance.

They were all business as they discreetly blended in with the crowd and slipped through the side entrance. Walking up a short set of steps, they stopped at the mezzanine level where they caught the elevator. Sam pushed the call button and they waited.

The accidents started on the ninth floor and ended on the eighth— They had to go to where this all began.

The elevator arrived, people standing inside annoyed that it had stopped just one floor up from the lobby and well before _their_ floors, and Sam and Dean crowded inside. Several floors were lit, but not nine. Dean reached over and hit twelve, knowing that all the people would be gone from the elevator before they reached the top—no one would see that they would stop the elevator on the forbidden ninth floor.

When the doors opened up to nine, the brothers were met with a still quiet. Not a soul was on the ninth floor. After Nan's fall no one was allowed on the ninth floor, not even hotel staff. Dean charged ahead, walking quickly towards the cursed stairwell with Sam following close behind.

Dean paused briefly as he came to room 917. It was the last room before the staircase entrance. Dean glared at the room, knowing that it was the place Rebecca's murderer had once called home, and Sam gently prodded him forward with a light touch at his shoulder, musing over how protective Dean had become of Rebecca.

They entered the stairwell, pushing back the door and letting it fall gently shut behind them. There was a short span of wooden hallway and two tall windows set into the wall just before the start of the stairs. The lights were on this time, illuminating the enclosed space.

It was late and with the party downstairs stretching hotel personnel thin, nobody was in the stairwell. They had time to work without need for haste.

"You ready?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam nodded and got down to work. It was a short and straightforward incantation that should simply summon Rebecca to their call. He took white chalk from the bag and drew a wide circle on the floorboards, encompassing them both within it. He traced over the line three times while Dean set about finding north and placed a candle at the north most part of the circle with a ring of salt around it. Sam then drew a triangle to the east of the circle, and then stepped back into the circle.

Fishing through the duffle, Dean held Rebecca's diary up for Sam, then removed the salt gun. He nodded once to Sam, indicating that he was ready, and waited for Sam to begin.

With the spell book propped up in one hand and Rebecca's diary in the other, Sam started to read the Latin incantation, the words rhythmic, his voice strong. While Sam chanted, Dean's sharp eyes scanned the area for signs of Rebecca's manifestation.

With a final word, Sam closed the spell book and joined his brother in scouting for signs that her ghost was about to make an appearance. The stairwell was still, echoing quiet.

Nothing was happening.

Sam reopened the book, puzzled, as Dean bent low to check that the salt ring around the candle was unbroken. Frowning and shaking his head, Sam handed the spell book to Dean and stepped out of the circle, looking for flaws in the design. "I don't understand," Sam said.

Something—_anything _— usually happened by now.

Dean stowed the book in the bag and put his shotgun down on top of it. He walked closer to the first tread of steps, peering down at the bottom in case she had appeared at the end.

He turned towards Sam, surveying their summoning circle. "Did you say the incantation right?" Dean asked with a frown.

Sam dropped Rebecca's diary on the floor, but didn't say anything. He was glowering at Dean.

_Oh, such a friggin' girl_, Dean thought. _I make one comment about his pronunciation—_

"What's the matter with you?" Dean asked him.

"What do you _think_ is the matter with me?" Sam hissed back.

"Whoa, don't get your panties in a twist. I was just—."

"Don't you pretend like this is nothing—like _we're_ nothing," Sam growled, his hands balling to fists at his side. "You think you can just leave after all I've done for you— No one leaves me."

His breath let out in a puff as the temperature dropped drastically.

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood on end as he stepped back from Sam, his eyes narrowing. _Oh, shit._ The incantation had worked— just not in the way they expected— they had wanted to _evoke _her not _invoke _her.

They'd both been expecting some kind of corporeal ghost, the kind that can cause physical harm. They should have thought of this, but they hadn't gotten one single thing right about this case so far, so why start now?

Dean eyed the shotgun, but he wasn't about to use it on his brother, even if it was only filled with rock salt.

Positioning himself between Sam and the stairs, Dean took a stance facing his brother. There was no way in hell he was letting Sam take that nosedive, he didn't care what it was inhabiting his brother.

"No one leaves me," Sam repeated. Then his voice twisted with taunting amusement. "But everyone leaves you, don't they?"

Dean flinched, reminded himself that it wasn't Sam— _it's not him— it's not. _Furtively, he took hold of the banister, ready to forcibly block his brother should he attempt some kind of jump, and asked, "Who are you?"

Without warning, Sam rushed forward. Dean tightened his grip on the banister, ready to intercept his brother, when Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders, fingers digging painfully into his flesh and shook him hard.

The lights in the stairwell flickered off suddenly shrouding them in shadow, but enough moonlight filtered in through the tall windows for Dean to see the ire coloring his brother's eyes.

"Don't play games with me," Sam snarled. "God damn it, Rebecca!"

Dean's eyes widened with abrupt understanding. There was only one person who would talk to Rebecca like that. "You're _Robert_ and you think that I'm—."

Suddenly Dean felt overtaken by a cold paralyzing breath and he knew for a frightening instant that he was no longer in control of himself— Rebecca was.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Though I didn't use any direct quotes, I should cite my sources: info about summoning rituals from _The Practice of Witchcraft Today_ by Robin Skelton and texts from _The Key of Solomon._

Oh, and I tweaked history a little bit, but Frank Detra was a real person who took over the building of the first night club on the Las Vegas strip called the Pair O' Dice Club. Just in case you were wondering:D

Reviews are _so_ awesome :) At least I'll know someone is reading this thing! Drop me a line if you have questions.

So, about All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1?

Group hug, everybody?

is a wreck

I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Five

It was not unlike a vision, for the same momentary feeling of disorientation, of _where am I— what's real, _hummed through him like a so-hot-it's-cold electric jolt. Only he was not bequeathed a death-vision—no promissory of someone's untimely demise. He was left with _nothing_ at all. Sam Winchester's mind was a total blank.

Well, perhaps not a _total_ blank, only devoid of the present and the moments leading up to now. There was a sense of urgency nagging at him that made him want to run, but from what or to where he did not know.

Sam forced himself to remain _calm_, and figure out where he was. He stood stock still at the top of a staircase in a very large corridor.

The lights were off. Nothing but white moonlight provided any kind of visibility; it spilled boldly from the tall windows, cutting strong shapes across the hall.

As if on the edge of a precipice, Sam peered down the stairwell shrouded in inky black shadow. He could barely make out the top tread let alone what might await him at the bottom.

Sam took a tentative step, and his world went vertigo. Raising a hand for balance, he clamped his eyes shut, willing his head to stop spinning.

Sam was certain he had felt this way before, but his brain was fuzzy and he couldn't place the _deja vu_ anymore than he could make sense of what had just happened.

An unsettling feeling roiled in his stomach. Sam blinked, trying to clear his vision and gain his bearings. Something was terribly wrong.

The air was stale and cold—too cold to be natural— prickling goose flesh along his skin. Nausea rising, Sam groped for the support of the solid oak banister at the top of the staircase.

Pieces of memory flashed back to him, rushing him like the racehorse tides charging the shores of Mont St. Michel.

The Addison Hotel. Dead guests. A restless spirit. _Rebecca._ Cold. Anger. Hands. _Dean._

It wasn't a vision. _It's real. _It was happening here and now. No, it had already happened. _I've done something_, Sam thought, turning numb with breathless panic.

The antique light fixtures mounted to the walls abruptly flickered on, dispelling the dark shadows with soft, illuminating light.

It was then that Sam saw what needed his attention. Lying sprawled at the bottom of the stairs was Dean. He lay on his stomach, his face turned away from the stairs. Blood slowly pooled around his head. He did not move.

"No—_no, Dean!"_ Sam shouted, clearly too late to do anything but stare aghast at the lifeless body of his brother.

Horror stole all impetus from him, rooting Sam to his spot. Numb all over, his limbs tingled with pins and needles. Dean had not merely fallen down the stairs; he had been pushed. _Sam_ had _pushed_ him.

_Oh, my God—what if I've—_

Rushing the steps, Sam knelt over Dean who lay sprawled at the bottom. Blood seeped from a gash across his temple. More blood leaked from the back of his head, weeping slowly down his skull, along his jawbone, and running under his chin. His eyes were closed and he did not move.

"Dean?" Sam said, afraid to touch him. If his neck was broken he could hurt his brother more by moving him even a little bit. Sam's heart thundered, pounding wildly in his chest and Sam couldn't think— _can't_ _breathe_—

"Mmmm," Dean groaned, soft and anguished, his lips moved, forming words. He was trying to tell him something.

"Dean?" he said, worry creasing his brow. Unable to stop himself from offering comfort to his brother, Sam risked a feather-light sweep of fingertips along Dean's forehead and down across his cheek. "Shhh, it's all right," Sam said, even though things were far from all right. Dean's mouth still moved, but the words were lost to Sam's ears.

Sam leaned in close, breath soft across his brother's cheek as he turned his ear to Dean's lips to catch the mumbled words.

Dean's eyes fluttered open, but they were dazed, unseeing. "…the baby," he said. A trail of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth as he dragged in an uneven breath. Pain darkened Dean's eyes before they rolled closed.

"_Dean!"_ Sam shouted. Useless, he hesitated over his brother. Sam balled his hands into fists. _These hands hurt him_. It took all his willpower not to touch him then, _not_ to try to make it right. "I'm going for help, Dean. I'll be right back," Sam said. "I'm not leaving you."

And Sam rushed to the doorway, shouting for help into the deserted corridor.

o0o00O00o0o

Each chair in the row was uncomfortable no matter how Sam tried sitting in them. He slouched in the one on the end, resigned. It was sometime after 3 a.m. and though the hospital did not look busy to Sam, he'd been pacing a rut in the tile, waiting for hours for information on his brother.

_What's taking so long?_ Sam thought, but he was afraid of the answer. He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a slow breath, trying to keep his frayed nerves under control.

What had happened in that stairwell? It was the question he and Dean had been asking ever since they had arrived at the Addison Hotel. What had gone wrong? The most frustrating thing was that Sam couldn't really remember. Hazy bits of memory and sensory perception wafted through his mind like smoke in a cigar house. He'd been possessed, that much he knew— that sense of _déjà vu—_ felt the same way after Ellicot—but Sam was muddled on the details.

Rebecca's diary lay on the seat next to him. He didn't remember picking it up. He didn't remember retrieving the duffle bag or the shotgun either, but he apparently had. Maybe before he realized Dean had fallen— _been pushed—_ maybe during the blackout some kind of preservation instinct must have kicked in because if the police had found those items at the scene Sam would be in jail right now.

To distract himself, Sam had poured over the pages, re-reading the entries like a man sifting for gold, carefully sorting through the flowery script for key details they might have missed. At the end of an hour the only conclusions Sam had drawn was that they must have guessed wrong at what exactly Rebecca wanted the world to know.

From all the information they had gathered, Sam was positive that Rebecca had been murdered and that Robert Barry had killed her. But that was _not_ the secret keeping Rebecca from being at rest or else none of this would have happened.

_What the hell else could it be?_

Sam pushed the heel of his hands into his eyes, rubbing the fatigue from them. He wasn't thinking straight. None of it seemed to matter at the moment.

_The last three people who went down those stairs never got up again._ Sam's stomach twisted. _God, Dean if I've killed you—_

He sat up suddenly, leaning forward in his seat, as if the quick motion would dispel the awful thought.

And _damn_ if this wasn't exactly what Sam feared most. Sam did not want to hurt anyone, but the harrowing worry cutting straight to his core was that one day he would turn and destroy his own brother. Was this foreshadowing a more sinister event?

That promise Dean had made all those years ago as their world burned to ash around them—_always protect my little brother_— he had taken it straight into his heart, and Sam wished now more than ever that Dean had never made such a vow. Sometimes, he wished Dean didn't love him so damn much. If the demon ever pitted one against the other, Sam knew that Dean would yield to him in the end— if this weren't the end.

Soft footfalls caused Sam to look up. A doctor stopped before him, somber expression on his face. Sam stood up, his heart suddenly racing as he regarded the doctor. He couldn't take it— he couldn't bear the look on the doctor's face.

"My brother," Sam whispered, "God, he's dead, isn't he?"

"No, he's not dead," the doctor said quickly, but his grave expression didn't change.

Finding that his legs would no longer support him, Sam sunk to a chair, literally weak with relief.

"He's not in the clear yet," the doctor replied. "But he was very lucky considering the others."

_Lucky_, Sam thought. _Yeah, he's real lucky to have a brother who couldn't quite kill him._

"We did a CT scan to check for a skull fracture or bleeding in the brain and so far there are no signs of either," the doctor told him. "However, he does have a severe concussion and there is a little bit of swelling in his brain. He hasn't regained consciousness yet. It may be too early to tell if there's a serious problem."

Sam blew out another breath, running a hand through his hair. _It could be worse_, Sam reminded himself. _It could be so much worse._ But somehow that offered little comfort.

"We'll be monitoring him closely," the doctor said. "Your brother's vitals are the strongest of all the accident victims. This is a good sign, but all we can do now is wait."

Sam nodded. Dean wasn't out of the woods yet. There were dozens of questions circling Sam's brain, but the only one that seemed to matter right now was, "Can I see him?"

The doctor smiled, "Of course."

o0o00O00o0o

Sam stopped at the threshold, peering into the darkened room. A line of rock salt might as well have lined the door, for the dark demon of guilt fisting his heart wouldn't let him enter.

_You did this_, it whispered, clenching tighter. _You nearly killed your brother, just like you've killed everyone you love._

Quite a few times now Sam had waited for either life or death in a hospital, and each of those few times spent in desperate prayer were complete and utter agonies.

Sam went to the bed, looking down on his unconscious brother. A white bandage wrapped around his head with tubes and wire connecting him to various machines and monitors. His eyes were closed. Dean lay still, oblivious to the waking world. For half a second Sam could pretend that he was only sleeping, but even in slumber Dean had never been this still.

Sam was unable to find his voice and swallowed thickly. He ghosted his fingertips up Dean's arm and back down to his hand, half hoping for some sort of sarcastic remark about stowing the touchy-feely crap, but Dean remained silent.

"I know you hate these chick-flick moments," Sam whispered, trying to muster a smile for his brother, "but there's got to be a better way to avoid them." He took a breath with difficulty, finding his chest tight with emotion.

"You've got to stop doing this to me, man. I've been on this side of things too many times…"

His brother blurred suddenly and Sam blinked, trying desperately to clear his vision. It didn't get any easier, no matter how many times Dean ended up in the hospital.

Sam was suddenly tired, the pooling of his anger, fear and frustration finally poured over the limits of his stamina. Sliding a chair right up to Dean's beside, Sam collapsed into it, exhausted. He leaned forward, resting his cheek on the mattress, and gently placed his hand over Dean's, lightly probing the ridges of his knuckles with his thumb until he fell asleep.

o0o00O00o0o

Though Sam knew the odds were against it, he still had hoped that Dean would be awake when he returned to the hospital in the morning.

The nurses had woken him up sometime before five, telling him that he couldn't stay any longer, but that visiting hours started at 10 a.m.

A cab ride from the hospital to the hotel passed in a blur and somehow Sam made his way back to their room. Books piled up by the table, notes strewn about, pillows thrown around the room with rumpled, messy beds— it was just as they had left it.

And this seemed monumentally unfair to Sam. His world had been turned on its ear— why was nothing else in shambles? Had it really been only _hours_ since his brother had chucked pillows at his head while they volleyed theories back and forth?

The absence of Dean was unbearable and Sam had felt the onset of tears threaten him. But he'd forced himself to calm and get some rest so he could be there for Dean as soon as he was allowed back.

At 10 a.m, Sam was back at the hospital, still tired, but hopeful. He'd been told that Dean was stable; his condition had not deteriorated in Sam's absence. It was a waiting game now. If Dean woke up within 24 hours, it was a good sign that he'd recover. But if it was much longer than that, like Nan, who had not regained consciousness, it was possible that he'd never wake up.

_You never know with head injuries,_ the doctor had explained. _There is no standard neurological case— they are each remarkable in that they are all different._

"Hey Dean," Sam said coming beside the bed, his eyes scanning him for any signs of understanding. He pulled a chair up close, his knees brushing against the mattress when he sat down. "They said talking might help you find your way back to me," Sam whispered, but for once he didn't feel much like talking.

Seeing his brother lying so still on the bleached white linens reminded Sam of the other times he'd nearly lost Dean.

_Stimulating brain function— hearing a familiar voice, feeling a familiar touch— might help his recovery. _

Taking Dean's hand between his two, Sam gently smoothed his fingers over the silver ring on his right hand. He didn't know when Dean had acquired it, one of the many things that had happened during his Stanford years, but Sam liked it immediately.

"You gotta wake up, man," Sam said. _I need you, Dean._

It was difficult, facing the idea that his big brother might never wake up. As a kid growing up the Winchester way, Dean had seemed invincible. And even though it had been many years since Sam had thought of Dean as this infallible hero, a part of that idea had always remained. Dean had never outgrown his role as Sam's protector and deep down, Sam had taken comfort in the fact that no matter what happened, Dean would be there, would have all the answers, would know what to do.

_You'll be alone. _When he thought of it, Sam was terrified. He'd never been truly alone, even at Stanford Dad and Dean were only a phone call away. Well, at least Dean had always been. It was a comforting thought that had empowered him. There had been times when he'd imagine the Impala rolling up the curb outside his dorm— but Sam's determination to prove himself always waylaid that call.

"How about I read you the newspaper?" Sam asked, wanting to pull out of his current train of thought. "I'll find us a nice new case. We'll leave The Addison behind us."

Sam gave Dean's hand a squeeze before untucking the newspaper from his jacket. The local newspaper was a thin volume, but reading it aloud would take a few hours at least. Except, Sam couldn't just leave The Addison case behind even though he wanted to, and the local news did not hold his interest.

With nothing but time to think, Sam turned over the accident in his mind, again and again and again. There was no way for Sam to be sure, but he didn't think it was Rebecca's spirit that had possessed him. From what little he could remember, Sam felt that the spirit was angry— driven to a jealous rage— very aggressive and distinctly male.

And something Dean had said at the bottom of the stairs made him wonder if Dean had been possessed too. …_the baby._

The entries in the diary, and the facts of the case, combined with Sam's own impressions of what had happened led him to one conclusion. If Sam had to guess, he'd say that Rebecca had possessed Dean and _Robert_ had possessed him.

It wasn't that Rebecca was super strong as their EMF had suggested— it was that there were _two_ spirits trapped in the stairwell, neither capable of a corporeal state.

Neither spirit was strong enough to exist on its own, but through possession they could use others to carry out what they could not do themselves.

Considering the evidence, this made a lot of sense.

But they didn't pick just anyone. Hundreds of people roamed through that hotel and Sam knew that many a curious guest had gotten past the lax security to take a peek at the murderous stairwell, but there had only been three recent accidents—

_Four,_ Sam thought sullenly. _Dean makes four._

Why Dean? Why had Rebecca chosen Dean as her vessel? And for that matter, why had Robert chosen him? Was it because Sam was prone to darkness and bad things? Could the murderous spirit of Robert Barry see the Yellow-Eyed Demon's taint on him? Perhaps it was fate reinforcing the notion that he was destined to submit to the Demon's will.

Or maybe it was something else entirely. After all, Robert had also possessed three other people— the so-called witnesses of each accident.

Sam's musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. A nurse came in, telling him they needed to check up on Dean. Sam blinked, glancing at his watched and gaped— he'd been there for three hours.

As he was ushered out of the room by the nurse and now Dean's doctor, Sam felt a massive ache forming at his temples. His head felt like it was full of cotton. Concentration was impossible. He pushed his palm against his forehead, trying to ease the tension— his mind was so full of worry, a persistent drone marching on through his skull.

Sam considered himself to be intelligent but he found it difficult to process what the doctor told him about his brother. Fragmented phrases like _CT scan_ and _trauma_ and _if_ and _time_ and _we just don't know _were all he could really take in.

_He's all I have_, Sam thought, terror seizing his heart. The thought of losing his brother cropped back up— Sam knew his heart would rend in two, split inconsolably and irrevocably in half. These feelings were nebulous, layer upon layer of emotion woven together in a way that only family knows.

Sam walked aimlessly through the ward. The nurse had told him to come back in about an hour while they tended to Dean.

Standing farther down the hallway, a woman in a gray uniform dress looked solemnly into one of the rooms. Sam slowed his pace, looking at her with interest.

_I know her_, he thought.

She suddenly turned, walking away from Sam. _That's the woman who was with Nan when she fell— the witness—_

Sam hurried to catch up with her, passing Nan's room, just managing to slip into the elevator with her. She was wearing her Addison uniform, the name _Beth_ sewn into the blouse below her left shoulder.

She recognized him right away and there was no beating around the bush. "I heard about your brother," she said. "I'm very sorry."

Sam smiled tightly. "Thanks— I'm still trying to figure out what happened."

Beth looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Yeah, me too."

"I just keep going over and over it in my mind," Sam said. "It's not adding up."

She tensed up, knowing where the conversation was headed.

"What happened with Nan?" Sam asked softly.

"I don't know," she said. "One minute we were laughing— joking about how much we were already behind and the shift had just started. And then—," she paused, struggling. "She was at the bottom."

"Tell me exactly what happened," Sam said.

The elevator doors opened then, and Sam followed Beth out, determined to get her account of things. There might be some detail that she knew that would help Sam crack this case.

"Want to grab a cup of coffee?" he asked her, nodding to the cafeteria sign.

Beth sighed. "Okay," she conceded.

Once they were settled at a small table, coffee in Styrofoam cups cooling on the tabletop, she began to explain.

"We were coming down from the supply room on ten— walking down those damn stairs like nothing— the lights went out just as we reached nine. Nan commented how unhappy she was with the electrician." Beth's mouth curved to a frown. "Nan said something kind of odd— said she wasted so much time. She was really sorry about the bad decisions she'd made, but she was gong to start over afresh, saying it wasn't too late."

She looked over at Sam with an unsure shrug. "I figured she was talking about the faulty wiring, taking it real hard 'cause the management's kind of demanding, then— _then_— the next thing I know I'm at the top of the stairs and she's at the bottom." She looked down, guilt contorting her features.

"It's not your fault," Sam said, his voice kind and reassuring.

"It's _all_ my fault," Beth replied, tears in her eyes. "It doesn't make any sense! I really like Nan— we always got on great— she's my friend—."

"But you think you might have pushed her," Sam said quietly.

She nodded, tears spilling.

"Listen to me— you didn't push Nan. It wasn't you— I can't explain it, but know that it wasn't you." _Take your own advice, Sam_, he thought, but somehow he could be less forgiving with himself.

He handed a napkin to Beth who took it and dabbed at her eyes. "It's those damn stairs," she said suddenly. "Should never have gone down them in the first place, but we're supposed to as part of the floor staff. Not supposed to use the elevators if you can avoid it."

Beth wiped at her eyes again. "Thank you for the coffee," she said. "I have to get on with my shift."

"You're welcome," Sam said. "I'm going to be around— here and the hotel— if you ever want someone to talk to."

Smiling, she nodded and said, "I hope your brother gets better."

"Thanks," Sam said and smiled at her as left, ignoring the taut feeling of anxiety in his chest.

o0o00O00o0o

The nurses were kind to Sam. Though they wouldn't let him stay with Dean, they looked the other way when visiting hours ended for the day.

So it was well past that time when Sam awoke suddenly in his chair by Dean's bedside. Sam had nodded off again. He'd spent the entire day at the hospital, dividing his time been being with Dean and dancing around various doctors and nurses as they made their rounds to check up on his brother.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and brushed back his hair. His neck was sore from snoozing in an awkward position, and the ache in his head had upgraded to a constant throbbing. He was so exhausted. Time was a fragmented thing in the hospital— he didn't know where the missing hours went. It seemed impossible that time could still march on in resolute, steady beats when things were completely out of balance for Sam.

According to the wall clock, it was after 8 p.m. If he was going to be in any shape to visit Dean tomorrow, then he really needed to get some rest that wasn't sitting upright in a chair.

Sam leaned forward in his chair and grasped Dean's arm. "Hey, Dean. I'm going to—." He paused mid-sentence, breath stolen from his lungs. Dean's brow furrowed as he spoke.

"Dean?" Sam stood, leaning over his brother. "Can you hear me?"

Eyes wide and unblinking, Sam scrutinized Dean's face, looking for any sign of comprehension. Slowly, Dean opened his eyes.

"Hey— _hey_," Sam sputtered, heart pounding, a thrill of joy spiking through him. Dean looked up at Sam, hazel eyes locked onto brown, but then he blinked and his eyes fell shut.

"Come on, man, wake up!" Sam shouted, the elation turning to fear as quickly as it had come.

But nothing Sam said or did made Dean open his eyes again.

Rushing the nurses' station, Sam told them what had happened. "Don't worry. That's a good sign, hun," said the night nurse. "It's not like in the movies— people don't typically wake up suddenly. It's actually a very gradual process."

o0o00O00o0o

Though Sam hadn't slept more than a few hours in the time that Dean had been hospitalized (and that had mostly been in a chair by his brother's bedside), he felt revitalized.

Giddy, Sam had renewed energy and a restored sense of purpose. On his way out from the hospital the doctor had told Sam that Dean might wake up soon— maybe even tomorrow.

Sam wanted everything all set. He would arrange to check out of The Addison tonight and into a new, safe hotel. He'd have the Impala packed and ready and get Dean the hell away from here.

Of course, Sam was in major denial— resolutely not even entertaining the _possibility_ that _if_ Dean woke up he wouldn't be _himself_—

When Dean had opened his eyes and looked right at him, Sam _knew_ in his heart of hearts that he'd been in there. It had just been a fleeting moment between the brothers, but Dean, _his Dean_, had recognized him.

When Sam approached the front desk, he saw the clerk behind the counter bristle nervously.

"Hello, Mr. Harrison," she said. "How are you this evening?"

"Fine," Sam said. He opened his mouth to tell her that they were checking out, but she cut him off before he could utter a word.

"We're very sorry about your brother," she said. "We have decided to comp your stay—your _entire_ stay for however long you need."

Sam scrutinized her, waiting for the punch. "What's the catch— no, let me guess. You'd appreciate it if I didn't talk to the press."

"That would indeed be appreciated," she said. "And I think your brother might like a nice place to stay while he recovers. I can assure you that _everything_ you need will be taken care of."

"Wouldn't that be a nice story for the media?" Sam snapped. "Look, it's _dangerous_ for him to be here and you can't guarantee—."

"Please just think about it," she said, then she lowered her voice and added, "Let us help you. I promise you, we'll do all we can for your brother."

"You really can't afford any more bad press, can you?"

She smiled tightly. "We're not looking for _any_ press right now."

"I'll think about it," Sam said as he walked from the desk. That hadn't gone quite as Sam had imagined it.

The truth of it was that Sam _hadn't_ thought much about recovery time— recovery meant debilitating injury.

As much as he didn't want to think it, Dean might be not be _Dean_ when he woke up. There was no way to know how much, if any, brain damage Dean had suffered until he regained consciousness. It was entirely possible that at most he would have one hell of a headache when he woke up. But it was also equally possible that he could be permanently disabled.

Sam returned to their room, but not with the same grief that had overwhelmed him the last time.

Like the careful and thorough researcher that he was, Sam looked up everything he could about the type of injury Dean had sustained, reasoning out various scenarios, trying to arm himself for the worst.

But none of this would be enough to prepare Sam if a part of Dean was forever lost. _One thing at a time_, Sam thought. _Deal with that if it comes._

Sam knew that Dean should be recovering in a stable place— not in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean would never admit any discomfort— he'd stubbornly sit in agony until they rolled into another shabby motel where he'd collapse onto a well-worn mattress all the while insisting he was fine.

At the very least, Dean deserved a decent place to recover. Sam would leave it up to Dean— it would be his choice. Besides, as long as they stayed away from the stairwell, Dean should be safe.

As his head hit the pillow, Sam fell asleep with thoughts of determination. Tomorrow, he would do everything in his power to help Dean regain consciousness, even if he had to talk to him until his throat was raw.

o0o00O00o0o

Soft rumbling, sweet and comforting, washed over him, ebbing and flowing upon his consciousness in tides.

A gentle touch caressed along his skin, sweeping up his arm and also over his cheek. More words, indecipherable, but urgent, demanding attention— the voice— affectionate, familiar—

_Sammy_, he thought and fought hard to understand, but there was no rushing it.

Dean tried to open his eyes to see his brother, but his body would not obey— not yet. He concentrated, trying to follow the words. Nothing made sense. It was like listening to the television drone from another floor.

Though he could not understand, he knew the tone, heard the pleading, the desperation, the warmth—

_Sammy…_

He put all his focus into his hands, and he squeezed as hard as he could.

Sam's grip tightened in his, the touch more insistent, and his voice sped up, growing louder, closer.

Dean held his firm grasp. _Keep me steady,_ he thought_. Help me find my way._

Again, he concentrated, pouring all his energy into finding his brother. Latching onto the cadence of his voice, Dean tried to make sense of the words. When Sam's voice faltered, he pressed his brother's hand, a gesture that was returned and with it his voice booming strong again.

"…remember when I turned ten? We were in Boston— Dad was checking out that burial ground next to the Common. God, it was so hot and miserable that day. Dad forgot my birthday—the big one-oh— two digits. But you— God, Dean, I don't know how you did it, but you got us into Fenway to watch the batting practice... Remember you told me about the Green Monster? Told me it was just a wall, the highest left field wall in professional baseball, not really a monster at all…"

Dean fought hard, and slowly his eyes opened, revealing a blurred but grinning little brother overhead.

"…Sammy?"

"Hi, brother," Sam whispered, and his smile lit the room.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Wow, thanks for the reviews everybody! I appreciate them very much. I'm trying update on Mondays. So far so good. :) Have any questions? Feel free to ask!

Oh, and who else is ready for Season 3, like, right now? I'm _totally_ ready. I say, bring it on, Kripke. Bring it on.

Other things:

I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Six

The only thing Dean could really focus on was Sam's presence in the room. Everything else took way too much concentration and just wasn't worth the effort. His little brother looked downright _ecstatic_ and Dean wracked his brain trying to think of the last time he'd seen such a smile grace Sam's face.

_Don't know what I did, but it must have been awesome_, he thought.

The bright spot that was his brother was unexpectedly pushed back and someone else, someone _not Sam_ came into focus overhead. Suddenly panicked, Dean didn't understand what was happening.

Then as quickly as he had vanished, Sam appeared on his other side, hand resting gently on his arm, countering this _not Sam_ person.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said. "This is Doctor Morin. You're in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Hospital?" Dean blinked, looking up at Sam, trying to remember and he just _couldn't_ and _that_ scared him

"You had an accident at the Addison. You were hurt— a head injury," Sam explained. "What's the last thing you remember?"

It took a moment of deep concentration, but finally Dean said, "Nan fell."

Sam glanced over at the doctor and said, "He's lost almost a day."

_I lost a day?_ Dean thought. _Well, shit_—

"That's not unexpected," the doctor said. "Dean, I'd like to examine you now."

Dean shot an uneasy glance at his brother, not quite ready for the one familiar thing in this situation to go away.

"Sam can stay. This will only take a few minutes," the doctor assured him. Regardless of how Dean felt about this, he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Sam stepped back, but not out of view.

The doctor prodded him, checked his vitals, shined light in this eyes and asked him the typical _what's your name, what year is it, who's the president?_ orientation type questions. Much to Dean's surprise, answering these few easy questions simply exhausted him.

He let his eyes fall shut and he released a slow breath. The doctor was saying something, but Dean didn't have the energy to focus on that. A moment later, he felt Sam's hand return to his arm. "Did I pass?" Dean asked, opening his eyes to see Sam's worried face frowning above him.

"Yes, you did," the doctor replied with a smile. He scribbled something on Dean's chart before heading towards the door. "I'll give you two a moment, but Dean you should really rest."

"Thanks, Doctor Morin," Sam said as the doctor left them alone. Then he sat on the edge of Dean's bed and shook his head slightly. "You scared the crap out of me, Dean."

"…was my turn," Dean said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Sam breathed a laugh, a relieved shaky sort of chuckle betraying his upset. Sam's gaze dropped to his lap as he strove to compose himself.

Despite his fatigue, Dean saw how his brother suffered. "M'okay," he said. "Head's hard as concrete. M'tough." His eyelids felt heavy and he blinked furiously, trying to stay awake. "Really, Sammy…"

"Okay, okay," Sam said, placing hand at Dean's shoulder. "You rest. I'll be here when you wake up. Just promise me you'll wake up."

"Mmm, hmm," Dean promised, eyes already closed as he drifted off to sleep.

o0o00O00o0o

When Dean woke again a few hours later, Sam needed to remind him what had happened. It was a bit unsettling, having to tell Dean twice, but Sam had been warned that this might happen. Dean fell in and out of consciousness for most of the day, but each time he awoke he was more alert than the time before.

Without the doctor there, Sam relayed the entire incident to his brother, starting from the moment Nan fell. Dean perked up as Sam explained, adding in details he could remember like, "That old broad was Rebecca's niece," and "Robert Barry was an ass."

Sam smirked at his brother and his typical Dean commentary. But his face sobered as he asked, "What do you remember about the accident?"

"Still drawing a big blank on that one," Dean replied. "Wanna fill me in?"

Keeping his voice low, Sam tried to run through what had gone down as objectively as he could, but found it was impossible when he came to the end.

"I pushed you," Sam whispered, the small words painful as they rose through this throat. "You could have died— I almost killed you."

"No, Sam, it wasn't you," Dean admonished. "You know it wasn't, so stop guilt-tripping over it."

Sam was silent a moment, frozen like a New England winter. "You should rest, Dean," he said, attempting to deflect the conversation.

"What happened to me was _not_ your fault," Dean said, wanting to be absolutely clear. "Look, the details may be a little hazy, but I know that you wouldn't—."

"How do you know?" Sam asked fiercely. "How do you know this isn't just the beginning of the demon's plans for me?"

Dean's intent gaze loosened with a smile. "Because I'm the big brother."

But Sam shook his head, not accepting Dean's answer. "Dean, you have to promise me you'll—."

"No," Dean said, his smile fell back to a serious line and his fatigue was suddenly very apparent.

"_Dean, please,"_ Sam implored. "Look what I've done to my brother."

"It wasn't you," Dean said again. His eyes closed slowly, energy waning.

"That's the point— someday, I won't be me. I can't— _I can't_— fathom—." And Sam stopped, unable to get the words out. "You have to do it, Dean. You have to do what Dad said."

"_No,"_ Dean growled, his eyes open and fierce. "No, I won't. Don't you ask that of me, Sam."

Sam pressed his advantage, knowing he could wear Dean down if he had to. "Please, Dean." Sam was quiet a moment before adding, "I don't know if I can do it myself."

"_God damn it, Sam,"_ Dean swore and dropped his gaze to his lap and it was as much of a concession as he would ever grant. Weariness and anxiety set the tense slouch of his shoulders as images of finding Sam someday at the bad end of a botched suicide attempt flashed through his mind.

Suddenly shamed, Sam said, "I'm sorry." He clasped Dean's hand, not letting go until his brother looked up. "I don't know why I just forced that," Sam said. "This whole thing is just—."

"Snowballing out of control," Dean finished.

"Yeah," Sam said, filled with the sudden need for his big brother to be the all-knowing oracle of his childhood, when Dean could dispel anything Sam was unsure of or even frightened of with a confident word and a reassuring touch. "I just don't know what to do," Sam whispered.

"We'll figure this thing out," Dean said, casually confident, as if sensing Sam's want. Even now, he still had to look out for his brother, still had to try. But in his current condition, his words fell a little south of encouraging.

"Why were you spared?" Sam whispered, not trusting his voice to be steady at a louder volume.

"Don't know, Sammy," Dean said. "Don't really remember it." But then he added with a grin, "Told you already, I'm tough. Takes more than a ghoul and bunch of old stairs to take Dean Winchester out."

"Not by much," Sam said.

o0o00O00o0o

Dean was making good progress, his vitals were strong and after this last night in the hospital, provided there were no complications, Sam could take him home. He'd be sore from the fall and have an astounding headache once he was off the morphine, but otherwise he would be fine to be discharged in the morning.

Sam eyed Dean from over the top of his newspaper for the third time in less than a minute. In a repetitive circuit, Dean rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead then ran his hand over his head, fingers loosely teasing the bandage as if forgetting it was there each time.

The TV in the hospital room was on, volume low, but Dean had lost interest in it pretty quickly.

This was some sort of tick, and Sam didn't like it one bit. Was this caused by pain, or boredom, or something else entirely?

"What's the matter?" Sam asked finally, after he couldn't stand the repetitive gesture anymore. "Do you want me to get the nurse?"

"No," Dean said. He glanced up at Sam, a deep frown settled onto his face, before dropping his gaze to his hands. "I think I remember something important… but I'm not sure."

"What is it?" Sam asked, putting the newspaper aside.

"I don't really remember what happened, but I have impressions—," Dean began. "I think…" and his eyes sought Sam's as he said, "I think Rebecca was pregnant when she died."

They hadn't really talked too much about the case since Dean had woken up, just enough to inform him of what had happened in that stairwell— or at least what Sam suspected had happened.

"Do you remember what the last thing you said to me was?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean replied.

"You were lying there at the bottom and you said, 'the baby'," Sam told him. "It took me a while to work it out—" _because I was petrified that you were dead and nothing else mattered except you_— "but after I figured out that I'd been possessed, I thought maybe you had been too. It was probably Rebecca talking through you— might have been the last thing she ever said."

"It's the baby," Dean said quietly.

Sam considered this and asked softly, "You remember the baby, Dean?"

"I… yeah," he said. "Sort of— it's all really hazy."

Sam found himself smiling, a joke already curling his lips.

"You shut up," Dean said, folding his arms across his chest. "Rebecca's the one who remembers— I just remembered that she remembered. Dude, it's not like— stop laughing!"

And that, of course, unleashed Sam's laughter, a rolling peal that filled the room.

o0o00O00o0o

After four days in the hospital (although two of those four were spent unconscious), Dean was ready to fly. The guy in the bed across the curtain-divided room had his nephew visiting and the kid was engrossed in the Adventures of Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote on the wall mounted TV.

With a gentle smile, Dean listened to the famous _beep-beep_ and then the delighted laugh of the child as whatever scheme ol' Wile E. concocted backfired spectacularly. If Sam took any longer, Dean just might take a page out of Wile E.'s book. The great window escape as aided by an ACME brand bat outfit complete with wings seemed more and more appealing with each minute that passed.

A familiar presence darkened the door and Dean turned to see his brother leaning in the frame watching him watch cartoons like he had all the time in the world.

"Dude, did you bring my clothes?" Dean asked as Sam stepped into the room.

It brought an easy smile to his lips as Dean stared at him with a complete lack of patience.

"Well, good morning to you too," Sam said. He held up a bag and said, "Voilà."

"Give here," Dean said, arms outstretched like an expectant two year old. Rolling his eyes, Sam tossed the bag of clothes to his brother as Doctor Morin appeared in the doorway.

"Ready to go home, I see," he observed, watching Dean hold up the clean clothes Sam had brought him. He turned to the younger Winchester and said, "Sam, can I have a word with you outside?"

Sam followed the doctor into the hallway. "Is everything okay?" he asked, twinge of worry in his voice.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I just wanted to go over a few things with you before we release Dean into your care."

Sam gave the doctor his undivided attention.

"Most likely Dean will recover nicely at home," the doctor explained. "However, there are a few things you need to watch out for. If he becomes disoriented or hard to awaken, it could be a sign of slow bleeding in his brain. Some slow bleeders can bleed for weeks without much sign of damage."

Sam nodded, jaw clenched.

"Other symptoms to watch out for— bleeding from nose or ears, convulsions, dizziness or loss of balance or any behavior that is not normal for him. If you notice any of these things, bring him straight back here."

"Of course," Sam agreed. "Is there anything else?"

"Most people experience head and neck ache, or blurry vision for a few days to weeks," the doctor said. "This is considered normal for head trauma of this nature. There's a prescription for painkillers at the desk which you can pick up on your way out."

These were just precautions, Sam reminded himself, no reason to panic yet. The last time Dean had been in the hospital, he'd been healed miraculously by their father's sacrifice. There had been no physical symptoms to worry about, no recovery needed save for the repair of the emotional wreckage that had been left in John Winchester's wake. This was different.

"Don't worry, Sam. We checked him out this morning and he's doing fine," the doctor said, clapping him on the shoulder. "He can go as soon as he's ready."

And Dean was more than ready, which he demonstrated by only complaining moderately when Sam told him that hospital policy stated that he had to be carted out in a wheelchair.

As Dean settled into the chair, Sam stood behind at the handles and leaned over his shoulder, dipping low to whisper into his ear. "We can go anywhere," Sam said. "You don't have to go back there." _There_ being The Addison Hotel.

"Course I do," Dean said. "We can't leave this job unfinished. It's personal now." Then Dean added, "Besides, didn't you say they comped our stay?"

A small smile tugged at Sam's lips. "Yeah."

"Well, I do believe we have a free stay at a five star hotel waiting for us," Dean said, flashing his hundred-watt smile. "Now, Samuel, bring the car around."

o0o00O00o0o

Sam glanced up, peering over the top of his laptop at his brother. Dean sat on the very edge of his chair poised to get up, but frozen in place unable to go forward or move back.

"Dean?" Sam asked. His brother was white, face drawn in misery.

"Not feelin' my best," Dean admitted.

Sam dug through his duffle, finding the Tylenol. They hadn't yet filled his pain meds prescription and if Dean got his way, they wouldn't. He filled a glass from the bathroom, and set it on the table before Dean.

Dean's hands shook as he lifted the glass, but incapable of bringing it to his lips, set it back down again.

"Dean?" Sam asked, worried.

"Head hurts something fierce," he admitted. "Came on kinda sudden."

Sam crouched down so he could look up into Dean's eyes. They weren't dilated, but Sam was still worried. "Tell me the truth— Do we need to go back to the hospital?"

The doctor's words echoed in Sams' head. _You have to watch him carefully for symptoms that might indicate a more critical, underlying problem._ Head injuries needed to be taken seriously.

"No," Dean said. "Just the first time I've been off the good stuff the hospital pumped into me."

"You sure?"

"I'll get used to it— it'll get better— yes."

Sam frowned but said, "okay."

"Sam—," Dean said quickly. "Could you…"

Sam smiled. "Whatever you need," he said as he gently pulled Dean up to stand. Carefully, he helped Dean to his bed and he eased down upon it.

Sam got the water and shook four Tylenol from the bottle, placing the pills in Dean's right hand and the water glass in his left. "Try to take these."

And he did. "Thanks, Sammy." Dean gingerly moved himself back and to Sam's immense relief was asleep within minutes. Sometimes all Dean needed was a little encouragement.

Sam decided to let Dean sleep in peace and went out to fill his prescription and get food rather than eating in. He'd bring something back for his brother— and if he didn't want it, he'd order room service.

With some trepidation, Sam had led Dean back to The Addison, but his misgivings turned out to be unfounded so far. They had made it back to their room without incident from the staff or the spirits.

He felt so much relief now, the weight of uncertainty slowly lifting as they returned to their routine. He even found himself mulling over the case instead of his brother. He still wasn't sure how they'd get rid of Rebecca since burning her bones hadn't worked.

Sam was starting to think that Dean's suggestion of burning the stairs might be the only way to rid the hotel of her ghost. But it still nagged at Sam that he couldn't figure out what she wanted to tell them. Could it really be that she had been pregnant when she died? If that was the case then the message had come across. Would it be enough to put Rebecca to rest?

And then there was Robert— if Sam wasn't sure how to get rid of Rebecca, then he was at a total loss on how to expel Robert. There hadn't been any accidents since Dean's and things were starting to slacken back to normal around the hotel. The collective breath that staff and guests alike had been holding over the past few days eased with each uneventful day.

Sitting in the Impala, Sam realized what a mess he'd made of it during the days Dean had been in the hospital. It was a wonder that Dean hadn't said anything, must have been riding that last hospital high or else he hadn't actually looked in the back seat.

Sam could just imagine the tirade that was heading his way as he pulled into a gas station with a self-serve vacuum. But Sam almost welcomed the lecture— it would mean that Dean was feeling better.

o0o00O00o0o

The sun was beginning its slow decent when Sam returned to their room a few hours later. Car detailed, prescription filled and food in hand, Sam felt accomplished. The warm glow of late afternoon shone through the curtains, spotlighting Dean's empty bed.

"Dean?" Sam called. The bathroom door was wide-open, light off— no Dean.

Sam hit the lights and did a cursory sweep of the room. A quick glance outside told Sam he was not on the balcony. His brother wasn't there, but the keys to the Impala were in Sam's hand and Dean's cell phone was on the table.

His brother was walking around the hotel alone with a concussion. _Or worse_, Sam thought bleakly.

He checked his own phone, wondering if maybe somehow he'd missed a call from Dean, but no, nothing.

There had to be a rational reason why Dean left the room. No need to panic or imagine his brother passed out somewhere, a slow bleeder shutting down his brain.

_Stop it_, Sam thought as he hurried from the room. Taking quick strides, he stalked the floor, eyes scanning for any sign of Dean.

Turns out he didn't have to go far.

Sam breathed a relieved sigh when he saw Dean's broad shoulders slouched in a big armchair in the foyer on the seventh floor. Sam covertly watched his brother. He looked so tired and strangely vulnerable. The wound on the side of his head looked frightful, the stitches still new.

Sam's heart twisted— Dean very rarely let his guard down, especially around him and Sam took it for granted a lot of the time that Dean would always be a pillar of strength.

Dean stared at the portrait of a young woman. It was huge, at least four feet tall in a gold molded frame. Her expression was somber and more than a bit wistful, but Sam clearly saw fear captured there and he realized it was a portrait of Rebecca Addison.

"Dean?" Sam said. Though his voice was gentle it startled Dean out of a reverie. "What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep," Dean said, but he was still looking at Rebecca.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied. But the uncertainty creasing his brow told Sam, _no, I'm not_.

Sam crouched beside the chair and looked up at his brother. Sometimes the best way to coax words from Dean was not to say anything at all.

"Ever since…" Dean's voice trailed. "I feel her." And by _her_ Sam knew Dean meant Rebecca Addison.

"Do you feel her now?" Sam asked, trying for neutral but knowing his concern showed plainly on his face.

"Not really," Dean said, closing off, trying to build his walls back up.

"What do you mean _not really_?" Sam asked.

"It's nothing," Dean said. "Forget it."

"Oh, no," Sam said. "You tell me what you meant." It was as close to an order as Sam would ever give Dean.

Dean looked up at Sam, his hazel eyes bright with confusion. Taken aback, Sam had rarely seen such a bald-faced emotion from his brother.

"I keep thinking about Nevada and what it's like there. It's not even a thought, just an impression of something vague, then it takes a slow ten-count before I remember—." The words stalled on his lips and Dean turned away. "I wasn't sure who I was," he whispered. "It's just so hard to concentrate with this damn headache."

Sam blanched, the doctor's warnings about _complications_ with head trauma immediately sprung to mind. "You're tired," Sam rationalized. "Probably hungry too."

And they both knew it was a lie, but one they both wanted to hear.

"Maybe you're right," Dean said.

"There's food back in the room," Sam said.

Dean perked up a little. "Oh, I hope it's a steak with french-fries and a beer."

"No way, man," Sam said, a little relief in a reaction so Dean.

"Oh, God, you got me rabbit food."

o0o00O00o0o

The room was pitch black to his unadjusted eyes and a little gasp escaped him. No vision— no nightmare—

Spontaneously awake, Sam rolled over, instinct telling him to wake up. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. They had both turned in early, Sam just as exhausted in his relief as Dean in his recovery.

A soft _pit-pat_ rhythm suddenly registered in his ears and Sam looked across the room towards his brother's bed.

It was empty. Again. But Dean wasn't far. He was pacing beside the bed, his silhouette a blue shape against the sheer drapes covering the balcony doors.

Sam watched Dean take slow, methodical steps— _so unlike him_. If Dean paced, it was like a tiger, with quick searching steps that never lasted long before he sprang, acting upon some madcap impulse. Sam's frown deepened.

Slowly, Sam sat up, eyes never leaving Dean's pacing form. Dean didn't take any notice. "Dean?" he asked quietly.

Crossing the room, Sam sat on the edge of Dean's bed and looked up at his brother.

Dean didn't even see him, gaze unfocused. He was lost deep in his thoughts.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his voice soft so as not to upset him. But Dean still didn't respond to him, didn't acknowledge his presence in any way.

"Dean," Sam said again, this time reaching out and catching him by the elbow.

Dean jumped back, startled by the touch.

"It's okay," Sam said, hands rising in a placating gesture.

"Sam?" he breathed. "_Jesus_. What are you doing?" He was clearly frazzled, a hand pressed to his temple.

"You were pacing— you didn't answer me," Sam said.

Dean sagged a little, his knees braced against the mattress.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said absently.

"It was _her_ wasn't it," Sam said, worried eyes narrowing.

Dean's silence told Sam all he needed to know.

"Come on," Sam said. "We're leaving right now." Sam stood, but Dean didn't follow. "I knew it was a mistake to stay here." Dean looked at Sam, eyes-wide.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Dean demanded, drawing away from Sam, his movements all wrong, skittish and frightened and completely _un-Dean-like_.

"It's me— It-it's _Sam_," he said calmly, though his heart was pounding.

"Sam?" Dean whispered, brow furrowing in confusion. Pressing a hand to his temple, he said, "You're Dean's brother—." He squeezed his eyes shut. "_My_ brother."

"_Dean—."_

"She's got her hooks in me, Sammy," Dean said, then he paused, struggling. "I'm the only one who didn't die—." He swayed, but Dean caught himself quickly with a hand against the wall. "I don't understand."

"It's okay," Sam said, conveying a calm he didn't feel.

_You need to watch for… if he becomes disoriented… signs of slow bleeding in his brain…_ Doctor Morin's words echoed in his skull.

Sam couldn't be sure if this was in fact Rebecca or signs that Dean was suffering from complications of the fall— brain damage.

_Brain damage_— the words stuck in Sam's throat, burning like bile. His fearless big brother, who always protected him— no, no, he couldn't do it, didn't want to think it, but his mind worked too quickly for his heart.

What if Dean was mixed up, brain damage splicing bits of case trivia into his reality? But what if it was Rebecca getting to his brother?

In their line of work it was risky to misread signs like these. Already Sam had missed huge signals that may have prevented Dean's fall altogether. But being wrong about this could harm Dean's health and brain function. Sam didn't know what to do.

"Sam?" Dean asked, fingertips pressed to his temples.

"Right here," he whispered. "It's me— I'm here."

"I think I need to sit down," Dean said sinking next to Sam on the mattress.

It was frightening, how fast he was overtaken, quickly as blinking or taking a breath.

"What was _that_?" Sam asked him.

"Hell if I know," Dean said. "That's never happened before."

"Dean," Sam said gently. "We're going back to the hospital." He put his hand on his arm to help him stand.

"No, Sam," Dean said, resisting his touch. "No hospital."

"You're having—." Sam's throat constricted. "—complications."

Dean snorted. "I don't think ghost possession counts as complications."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. "How can you possibly be sure?"

"I just— know. It's her. She's screwing around with my head," Dean said. "Trust me, Sam."

Sam regarded his brother. He did trust Dean— with his very life— but he wasn't certain that Dean put the same value on himself that he did Sam. Still, nothing would be gained by arguing this point with Dean. He'd stubbornly dig his heels in, resisting every inch between himself and the hospital.

Sighing heavily, Sam conceded. "Do you think you can sleep?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. It was blatantly clear that he was exhausted.

"You need rest, Dean," Sam said. He reached to the table and grabbed Dean's painkiller medication. Shaking two from the bottle, he held them out for his brother. "You need to start taking these."

"Drugging me up, Sammy?" Dean asked with a quirked eyebrow, but he swiped the pills from his palm and swallowed them dry. "Not gonna take advantage of me in an unconscious state?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I won't impugn your honor." He watched his brother climb back into bed, curling into a comfortable position.

Settling back into his own bed, Sam knew that he wouldn't sleep tonight. Every instinct screamed at him to take Dean and get out, just leave and forget all about The Addison.

"She's 'fraid," Dean whispered, voice slurred as he fought the pill-induced sleep. "She wants t'leave n'she won't let me go without her."

Staring at his brother's sleeping form, Sam realized that there were other ways to protect Dean.

o0o00O00o0o

Lines of salt were along every window and doorway and even in a circle around Dean's bed. Dean realized this when he woke up and stepped right in a thick line of salt as he got out of bed. He really must have been dead to the world last night because Sam had actually moved his bed away from the wall a few feet in order to make a complete circle.

Deep down, Dean felt a little ember of pride when he saw the protections Sam had put around him. But that was deep down. On the surface, he was mad as hell. His neck and back were stiff and sore from his flight down the stairs and the pounding in his head hadn't really stopped since he'd left the hospital and Dean just didn't feel like dealing with Sam's shit today.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asked.

"What does it look like?" Sam snapped. "I'm stopping her from getting to you."

Not getting an iota of sleep last night had done nothing for Sam's mood, Dean observed as his brother scowled at him incredulously.

"Is all this really necessary?" Dean asked, gesturing to the room. Various paraphernalia was scattered about as if Sam didn't know what would work so he just tried everything. It looked like Sam had emptied out the trunk.

Dean noticed that sigils were drawn on his forearms with a black sharpie marker. "Dude, you _drew_ on me!" Dean shouted. "What the fuck, Sam?"

"_Goddamnit, Dean!"_ Sam ground out, furious. "You didn't even know who _I_ was last night."

"I'm fi—."

"_You are not fine,"_ Sam roared. "Having a concussion— being possessed— these are not signs of well being."

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean said, his little brother's fury taking the heat out of his own.

"Why are you so fucking willing to martyr yourself?" Sam strode forward, six foot four inches of intimidation and it took a bit of effort for Dean not to take a defensive step back.

"Is this any less than you would do for me?" Sam asked him.

And _goddamn_ he had him there. "No," Dean admitted.

"Then stop being a whiney bitch," Sam said. "And help me figure this thing out."

Dean let the comment slide because he could see plainly how freaked out Sam was. He never had been able to keep anything from him for very long, except for Stanford. Figures, he'd be able to keep a lid on the one thing that had hurt Dean most. _Only the big things, I guess, _Dean thought.

"All right," Dean said. "Let me shower first and we'll get to work." He scrounged around for some clothes and headed off to the bathroom.

Dean did not like that his thoughts turned over to Rebecca as if she'd always been there, as if her life was a forgotten chapter of his own. It did catch him slightly off guard when he realized that he shouldn't be hoping for a telegram or listening for the roar of a car engine as it approached The Addison driveway.

Rebecca had gotten right up inside his skull, making room for herself in his headspace. What really scared Dean wasn't that he was losing control so much as seeing what it was doing to his brother. Sam may be the little brother, but he wasn't easily frightened and the mania that Dean witnessed as evidenced by the state of their hotel room told him that he wasn't doing a good job of protecting Sam from Rebecca. He was failing miserably, in fact. Sam was strong, but Dean needed to be stronger, not just for Sam but for himself as well.

And what about this Robert Barry? Why wasn't he affecting Sam the way Rebecca was affecting him? _Probably 'cause I got my head cracked open like an egg_, Dean thought. If that's all it took, then he'd have to steer Sam clear of those stairs— they may not be so lucky as to escape them a second time.

Dean glanced up in the mirror and did a double take. Black sigils were drawn across his forehead and in a trail down his throat. He pulled his t-shirt up and revealed another line down his chest and torso. These were completely unnecessary.

_Oh, that little bitch is gonna get it_, he thought.

"You are so fucking dead, Sammy!" Dean shouted through the closed door and he could just imagine the little impish smirk on his brother face.

o0o00O00o0o

When Dean was finished in the shower, and after he complained for a solid five minutes about sharpie markers and indelible ink with promises of payback ten fold, they began weighing options for ousting Rebecca.

"Look, we have to burn the stairs," Dean said. "We tried summoning her and it didn't work how we expected."

"What about Robert?" Sam asked. "How do we get rid of him?"

"If a salt and burn didn't work on Rebecca, probably won't work on him either. I bet if we take out those stairs, Robert'll go down too."

"You got some kind of fire fetish I don't know about?" Sam asked. "Seriously, man, there's got to be another way."

"As much as I love sharing this body, Rebecca's visitations are getting old," Dean replied. "If you can think of something else, by all means let me know, but right now that's our only viable option."

"Let's go to the car," Sam said suddenly.

"I'm not leaving, Sam, so you can forget it," Dean replied.

"I'm not suggesting that," Sam said, though his tone indicated that he wished otherwise. "There are some texts in the trunk that might give us some options for getting rid of this spirit."

Dean was tired of being cooped up in the room anyway so he conceded. "We can put some of this shit away while we're at it." He lifted a short bladed sword from the table. "A tanto blade, Sam?"

"I didn't know what would work," he said with a shrug.

"Well, you didn't think you were gonna cut her head off, did you?"

"It's made of silver and steel and the handle has iron charms detailed into it," Sam replied defensively. "Didn't seem so crazy at three a.m."

When they reached the car, Sam loaded the things he had taken back into the trunk and pulled out a large tome filled with ghost theory. They leaned against the car, the black metal hot from sitting in the sun. Though it was hot, it felt good to be outside. In the bright sunlight and warm air, they could pretend for a few minutes that nothing could harm them, that they were just two brothers enjoying the nice weather.

The Addison Hotel loomed up before them, looking nothing but exquisite in the daylight hours.

"How are we gonna do this without harming a lot of people?" Sam asked. "And without getting caught?"

"Still working on that," Dean replied.

"Dean, a blaze that big could take out the entire hotel," Sam said, looking at the size of the building. "A lot of people could be injured if the fire got out of control."

Dean didn't say anything because he knew Sam was right.

"Burning the stairs isn't really a feasible solution," Sam said. "You know it's not."

"What if we started with just burning the spot?"

"What about the baby?" Sam asked, ignoring the question.

"What _about_ the baby?" Dead shot back.

"You said you thought Rebecca was pregnant, thought it might be important," Sam said. "Is it?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Did it feel like—."

"I don't know, Sam," Dean snapped, pushing away from the car. "It's all a mess up here," he said, tapping his forehead. Then he winced, the outburst clearly not doing his concussed head any favors.

Concerned eyes trained on him, but Sam didn't say anything, holding his worried words in check.

"Let me go through the diary again, see if I can figure out about the baby," Dean said. "You can work on a solution to the Addison's ghost problems." And he took off across the parking lot, not giving Sam a chance to respond or voice how worried he was about Dean and his unusual behavior.

o0o00O00o0o

Without meaning to, Sam had nearly read the large book cover to cover, searching for a way to expel the ghosts from the hotel without burning the staircase. He'd become lost in the lore and theory as he ticked off workable options and it wasn't until he felt a chill from the lobby doors, warm air giving way to cool as the sun sank, that Sam realized he'd been reading in the foyer for four hours.

There were actually a few more alternatives than Sam realized. The one that seemed most likely to work involved binding Rebecca to something else and destroying that. It was a convoluted process, but it seemed like it might do the trick.

As Sam paused outside the door to their room, readying the card key, he heard the sound of wood slamming against wood and the low rumble of his brother's voice coming from behind the door.

Alarmed, Sam shoved the key into the slot and pushed open the door. The room was a mess. Clothes were unceremoniously dumped on the beds; the duffel bag with weapons lay unzipped on one of the chairs, papers littered the floor like confetti. The single lamp that was on in the room flickered menacingly as Dean bent over the dresser, opening and closing the drawers, muttering to himself.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked.

"I can't stay here another second," Dean said, not sparing a glance from his rummaging.

Rebecca's diary was on the floor by his feet, collapsed on its pages. Sam bent to pick it up and smoothed out the crinkles. "What's happened?" he asked, looking from the diary to Dean.

"Can't you just for once do what I want?" Dean asked, fixing Sam with a cold stare. "I won't stay here alone anymore, Warren. I just won't."

_Warren…_ Sam froze, terror hitting him like a freight train.

Dean was in shadow, but as Sam moved closer he saw hints of Rebecca Addison's spirit transparent over him, matching his movements.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Sorry this one is so late this week. But, it's extra, extra long!

And because I couldn't resist: The cartoon that Dean references is _Gee Whiz-z-z-z_ that 1956 Warner Brother's Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner episode where Wile E. tries to catch the Road Runner while wearing a green bat suit— it works for about 15 seconds before he flies right into a boulder and the wings peel off the suit and poor Wile E. falls into the canyon. Anyone remember that? (In case you were wondering, yes, cartoons totally take up valuable space in my brain where something useful should be.)

Questions? Comments? Ask/tell me!

Other things:

You can also read this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter seven

Sam froze, terror hitting him like a freight train.

Dean was in shadow, but as Sam moved closer he saw hints of Rebecca Addison's spirit transparent over him, matching his movements.

"_Oh, shit,"_ Sam breathed.

His head snapped towards him, apparently shocked by his language, and Rebecca's specter faded, although she was still fully in control of Dean.

Taking a step towards Sam, he said, "You talk of starting a family, but all you do is work. You build things for other people, but when will you build a home for us? Is this where you want to raise our children?" And suddenly he caught another glimpse of Rebecca in Dean's face as he whispered, "I want us to have a home together. It's not too late."

Sam didn't know how Rebecca got to his brother, not with lines of salt around the windows and doors, not with the protection sigils he'd drawn all over Dean's body, _not this time_.

Whether she meant to or not, she hurt whomever she reached out to and Sam didn't know if Dean could survive another encounter with her.

"Leaving me here is not good for us," Dean was saying as he opened another drawer and pulled out its contents. Suddenly he swayed a little, but steadied himself against the dresser top, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead. "And it's not good for me. I'm coming with you this time."

Ever since Dean's fall, he'd been extremely susceptible to her. First there had been the bout of confusion, then the pacing by the window and now this— outright possession. It was almost as if she had tuned into Dean's frequency and his was the only wavelength she could find.

_Rebecca isn't all that strong,_ Sam thought. _She always needs someone else to help her manifest._ Though she'd latched onto Dean and seemed able to channel into him occasionally, it was never for more than a few minutes at a time. This was the first time that she'd ever managed some kind of corporeal state— even if it was only in flashes. _But she's getting stronger._

She was getting desperate and her desperation gave her strength.

Something had to have triggered this. Sam turned over the diary in his hands, realizing that this very incident was probably cataloged in its pages. It's quite possible that Dean had been reading that passage when this occurred.

More immediately his concern— Sam had no idea how to get Rebecca to vacate Dean.

_She's confused—she has no idea that she's nearly eighty years dead_, Sam thought as he watched his brother rummage through their possessions, looking for items that didn't exist._ And she thinks I'm Warren..._

Thinking fast, Sam went to Dean, grasping him firmly by the shoulders and forced him away from the task of packing.

"I know you're upset," Sam began, "but let's talk about this."

"Talk? No, I don't want to talk," Dean said and if that didn't sound just like him then it was one hell of a coincidence. "You're not talking me out of coming with you to Nevada."

"Let's go for a walk." Sam didn't wait for a reply; he simply took Dean by the arm and walked him towards the door.

Originally, he'd thought that Rebecca couldn't leave the stairwell, but he was finding out now just how untrue that was. But Sam would wager that she couldn't vacate The Addison, which was possibly why she wanted to leave it so badly.

Sam was going to have to test her boundaries and hope that it would be enough to release her hold on Dean for now. An exorcism would certainly send Dean back to the hospital, his body not yet healed from the first trauma.

If his hunch was correct, then Rebecca couldn't actually leave the hotel building. She'd be forced out of Dean's body by default as soon as they exited the structure. If her reach stretched to include the grounds, then Sam would take Dean off the premises, even if he had to carry him out himself.

First thing was first, though— getting out of the room and to the ground floor.

Thankfully, it was evening and few people were around to see Sam guiding Dean down the hallway. Dean would be _bullshit_ when he realized what had happened but right now all Sam could worry about was actually getting Dean back.

"Warren, you're not going to talk me out of this," Dean said, but allowed Sam to pull him along to the elevator.

"I'm not going to talk you out of anything," Sam said quickly as he pushed the down button. Dean let out a huff, fidgeting at his side. It was frightening how she'd completely taken him over— his motions, the lilt of his speech, even the cant of his head as he stared at the numbers over the elevator doors were different from Dean.

For a moment, Sam thought back to the shapeshifter in St. Louis and then back to the old Asylum with Ellicot. He realized that Rebecca could be a lot worse.

The elevator announced its arrival with a bright _ping_. Sam ushered Dean inside, lighting the lobby key, then jabbing the "close doors" button impatiently.

Sam was watching the numbers slowly count backwards when Dean looped Sam's arm in his and leaned heavily against his shoulder. Tremors ran through his body, and Sam could feel the shock of cold coming from his brother through the fabric of his shirt.

"Meant what I said," Dean said quietly.

Sam tightened his grip around him. He could tell that the stress of Rebecca's ghost was too much strain on his still healing form. And Dean's body was clearly fading fast. _Come on— hurry up!_ Sam urged the elevator.

"About what?" Sam asked.

"Not too late for us," he said, a too cold hand curling against Sam's forearm. "We could still have a home."

And even though Sam knew it was Rebecca talking through his brother's gravelly baritone, he felt his heart seize for it was so close to Dean's own wish that it might as well have been his brother's words.

"We are a home," Sam said, feeling Dean smile into his shoulder as the elevator doors opened upon the Lobby level.

Keeping his gaze down, Sam hurried them past the front desk, though he was pretty sure the clerk did a double take as they went by.

Sam had his eye on the side door, the one that led into the gardens where people were least likely to be at this hour.

Dean slowed, his endurance clearly being pushed past its limit, and his hand shook fiercely as he clutched Sam's arm.

"Almost there," Sam said.

"I'm so tired," Dean whispered. "Wasted so much time," he sighed. A trickle of blood seeped slowly from his nose. "You don't know how much I regret that— so much wasted time."

_Wasted time…_ This phrase— Dean had been saying this since he got here. Nan had said it to the housekeeper. And Sam was willing to bet that the other victims had said it too. Somehow Rebecca had been accessing Dean _before_ the fall— probably from the moment he'd arrived.

Maybe Sam could end it, could stop her here and now, if he could get her to tell him whatever it was that was keeping her here, making her possess victim after victim.

Merely three strides from the doors leading to the gardens outside, Sam stopped, steering Dean around to face him. "Talk to me, Rebecca," Sam said, hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. "I know there's something you want to tell me. Something important, something that's making you restless."

_Be at rest, _Sam thought, eyeing the trail of unheeded blood wending around the curve of Dean's lips and down his chin. _Let Dean be. _

"_How did you—."_ Dean halted, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at Sam. "You're not Warren," he realized suddenly as if truly seeing for the first time, and he tried to twist away. Sam gripped Dean tightly, pulling him forward and wrapping an arm about his waist.

"I don't understand—," he said, his voice rising and his eyes wide. "Not _my_ Warren," he said, trying to get away. "You're _his_ Sam." And Sam all but lifted Dean the last few steps outside.

Dean buckled, pitching backward like a felled tree, both Rebecca and consciousness stricken from him as he cleared the sanctuary of The Addison Hotel.

Sam did his best to keep them balanced, but without any strength from Dean, they both stumbled to the ground. Sam pivoted taking the brunt of the tumble, fearing what damage another concussion might impart on his brother.

o0o00O00o0o

Before he was truly aware of anything else Dean knew that he was gonna kill whatever asshole was playing that drum solo against his skull. He felt the hot throb of pain aligned with his heartbeat, threatening to bust his head open at his stitches.

"Hey," said a soft voice floating about his face. "Come on, wake up before someone sees us."

Dean opened his eyes, but it was dark and distorted. He blinked back the blur and Sam came into soft focus, his worried face hovering overhead. Sam was leaning over him, arms on either side of Dean shoulders as he fretfully stared down into his face. "Can you sit up?"

"Yeah," Dean said, even though he wasn't positive that it was true. Sam helped him, grabbing his arm and steadying him with a hand at his shoulder.

"What happened?" Dean asked as he slowly pushed himself up. "Why are we outside?"

"You don't remember," Sam said, unsurprised. "Rebecca got you."

"What, you mean like last night?"

"Worse," Sam said. "She outright had possession of you— at least ten minutes, probably longer."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Dean said. He grimaced and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. "That why I feel like I've been on a three day bender?"

"Probably," Sam said with a disapproving frown. "She thought I was Warren until I tried to get her to tell me why she's still here." Dean let Sam finger away the blood from his face and tilt his chin towards him.

"Shit," Sam cursed. "Your pupils are dilated." Sam had that look of terror in his eyes, the one that Dean had never been able to bear, would do anything to get rid of.

"Well, we are outside in less than perfect lighting," Dean said, trying for playful and failing. "Dude, I'm fine," he said. But his words were like throwing his zippo into a primed grave— incendiary.

"Don't start with me, Dean," Sam growled, temper rising. "We're leaving here right now and I'm taking you back to the hospital."

"No way," Dean said. "Look, we know what this is— it's not a head trauma thing. I can handle it until we figure it out."

"She's fucking around with your head— you can barely sit up, blood is coming out of your goddamned nose and you call that handling it?"

"Sam—."

"_You were gone, Dean!"_ Sam shouted, grabbing his shoulders and digging his fingers in tight. "Do you understand me? She had you, and you were gone."

"Hey, hey, easy on the goods," Dean said, clapping his right hand over Sam's death grip on his arm. "I'm here now, Sam," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Sam said. His grip loosened somewhat but did not release.

"Is everything okay out here?"

The brothers turned to see Lenny the bellhop standing in the doorway. His eyes shifted from one brother to the other, surveying the scene. What a sight they must be— both on the ground, Sam clutching his brother as if he might vanish otherwise and Dean looking shell-shocked, his face smeared with blood.

Dean opened his mouth to tell the kid that everything was fine, but Sam beat him to it.

"No, we need to leave," Sam said.

"The hell we are," Dean said indignantly. "Damn it, Sam, stop acting like such a pansy. It's just a little nosebleed."

"Help me get him to the car," Sam said to Lenny, completely ignoring Dean's resistance.

"_Hold on_," Dean growled, instantly regretting the outburst as pain flared through his skull. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Dean, this place is making you sick," Sam said. "I'm such an idiot for bringing you back here."

"_Wait_— just wait," Dean said. He turned to Lenny. "Can you give us a minute?" The kid nodded and stepped back inside, but hovered by the glass doors.

"You're so big on saving people, but you want to walk away from this?"

"I want you to be _safe_," Sam replied.

"If I leave then Rebecca's just gonna pick someone else— someone else is gonna die," Dean insisted.

"I'm not saying we give up on the case—."

"Might as well be," Dean interrupted. "Don't you get it, Sam? I have direct access to our spook— I walk outta here, we lose that. We need her to tell us what's going on."

"I tried that already," Sam argued. "It didn't work."

"No, you tried to trick her," Dean said. "We need Rebecca to talk to Sam Winchester."

Sam sat back from Dean and scrubbed his hands over his face, weary.

_He's reached his breaking point, _Dean thought as he examined the exhausted and angry man before him.

Sam had been through the wringer these past few days, thinking Dean was once again at the threshold of life and death, playing nursemaid for his recovering brother and watching helplessly as Dean was once again taken from him— this time by the wayward spirit haunting the hotel. Imaging himself in Sam's place made his heart flip-flop.

_I gotta let up— have to take care of myself,_ Dean thought. And though he loathed to admit it, Dean knew that he couldn't right now. Rebecca had done quite a number on him and he was exhausted in ways he didn't think he ever could be. It hurt to _think_, felt like rusty nails scratching across his brain as he tried to organize his thoughts.

But Dean was in it deep with Rebecca, entwined with her in a manner that could not be explained to Sam in words. He _understood_ things about her, intimacy that can usually only be known through years of familiarity, not unlike the closeness he shared with Sam. It was as if Dean had known her his whole life. He wanted to tell Sam about it, tried to form the words, but they scattered in his mind like leaves in the wind.

"Look, we'll go back upstairs, we'll salt the doors, I'll even let you draw however many sigils you want on me," Dean said with a smirk. "But I'm staying here until we get the job done."

Deep down, Dean knew none of these things would work because Rebecca wouldn't have to get past any barriers or protections— a part of her already resided inside him, a pathway forged without his realizing and now it was far too late to stop it. Sure, some places in the hotel were like hot spots where Rebecca's presence was stronger than in other spots, but she was still always there, omnipresent.

No sense in telling Sam. His brother was already starting to gray prematurely and Dean just couldn't add another worry on top of everything else when he knew full well there was nothing Sam could do about it.

Sam was quiet a moment, head ducked in typical Sam fashion, and then a small smile crept onto his face. "However many sigils I want?"

"Within reason," Dean hedged.

"Well, I think at least a hundred is reasonable," Sam replied.

"Oh, you would," Dean remarked.

Sam signaled to Lenny and together they both helped Dean to his feet. Despite his protests, the second Dean started to move vertigo swept him, removing all semblance of balance. Sam took hold of Dean's arm while Lenny held the door open for them.

"Thanks, Lenny," Sam said. "We've got it from here."

"Let me at least help you to your room," he said, anxious to assist.

"To the elevator's fine," Sam replied, knowing Dean would value the privacy.

"For a dead chick she certainly takes a lot outta you," Dean quipped, as soon as the elevator doors closed. And though he would deny it up and down, Dean held fast to Sam's arm because it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Do you remember anything Rebecca said to me?" Sam asked as he watched the numbers rise.

"No, not specifically," Dean said, delving back through his disjointed memories, trying to untangle the chaos. "She was afraid to be alone, wants to leave the hotel." He glanced suspiciously up at Sam. "Why, what did she say?"

"Things wives say to their husbands," Sam replied cryptically.

"Oh, god, please tell me I didn't start up with the dirty talk."

"I assure you I was quiet flattered, Dean," Sam said with a mischievous grin.

"I hate you," Dean replied and Sam's grin widened, knowing that his brother meant just the opposite.

o0o00O00o0o

When they returned back to their room, whatever levity had transpired in the elevator was immediately sobered when Dean saw the state of the room.

"I did this?" Dean asked, surveying the disarray of clothes, weapons and furniture disbursed about the room. "I don't remember."

Though Dean just shrugged and began to put things back in order, Sam knew he was disturbed by the wide gaps in his memory.

Sam picked up the phone and ordered an obscene amount of food ("It's all comped if we charge it to the room,") and then helped Dean right the mess. By the time the food arrived, things were back into some semblance of order.

Too tired to eat, Dean shoved the pizza Sam had ordered away from him and sat back on his bed. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes and sighed. "Feels like we've been here a year," Dean said. "Rebecca lived here five years and it felt like an eternity to her. At first it was glamorous, even kinda fun, but then it became a twelve story prison."

Refraining from pointing out that Dean shouldn't know something like that, Sam leaned forward in his seat, going for casual but watching his brother carefully for subtle signs of change.

"I want to put those sigils on you now," Sam said.

Dean looked horrified. "Dude, I was kidding!"

"Well, I wasn't," Sam replied.

"They didn't work last time," Dean protested, "why would they now?"

Sam stood and reached for the weapons duffle. Before Dean could disagree, Sam dragged a hunting knife across his palm, drawing a line of blood in his hand.

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean said, instantly springing to his feet, taking Sam's cut hand between his two. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Blood magic," Sam remarked. "If this doesn't keep her out, nothing will."

"What if I told you nothing will," Dean snapped angrily.

"Let me try," Sam said. "_Please, Dean_. Before I spill blood all over the carpet."

Sighing heavily and clearly displeased, Dean relented, allowing Sam to push him back down to his bed. "Make it quick then," he said, tugging his shirt over his head.

Sam pulled a chair over to Dean's bed and began drawing the sigils that he'd memorized from the night before onto his brother's back. His face scrunched in sympathy as his fingertips gingerly worked across bruised flesh where Dean's body had collided with the stairs.

"I think I found of a way to get rid of her," Sam said as he worked. "But we'll have to go back to the stairwell."

"You stay away from the ninth floor," Dean said. "If Rebecca's figured out she can get to me, I'm sure Robert knows he can get to you."

Sam paused, frowning. He'd almost forgotten about Robert. "I haven't felt Robert around at all— not even a hint of what it was like in that stairwell."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean he's not lurking somewhere," Dean said.

"Do you think it's possible that Rebecca is Robert's unfinished business?" Sam asked slowly, the gears in his head turning things in place. "Because Rebecca is not at rest, Robert _also_ is not at rest?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dean said. "Their deaths are as complicated as their lives were."

"Exactly. Robert only seems to crop up when Rebecca tries to reach out," Sam said. He pressed at the cut on his hand, forcing more blood to well into his palm and resumed drawing.

"But Rebecca just had me," Dean said. "And you told me you didn't feel Robert at all." He straightened suddenly, shying away a little as Sam came to a ticklish spot at the curve of his lower back.

Sam smiled, remembering that once upon a time they had both been young enough for pillow fights and tickling matches and life that still had a little bit of innocence, at least for Sam anyway.

"I didn't feel Robert's presence at all. But Rebecca wasn't trying to tell me something, she wanted to get away, to escape," Sam replied. "I tried to get her to talk and then she got agitated."

"So, it's like they're stuck on that final moment," Dean said. "Replaying it over and over— whenever Rebecca tries to tell her secret, that's when Robert gets in the way."

"Right. Rebecca needs someone to tell, but Robert always intervenes— kills Rebecca—

whoever she happens to be possessing— to stop her."

"That's why there's always two," Dean said. "No sense in Rebecca appearing when no one is around to hear her confession— and that person ends up the perfect host for Robert."

"So if we put Rebecca to rest, Robert will go down too," Sam said as he finished drawing the sigils on Dean's skin. He studied the red lines carefully, looking for flaws while praying they would protect Dean.

"You finished?" Dean asked, looking over his shoulder at Sam, who nodded his reply. "Good. Now get me the first aid kit and a bunch of towels."

Dean was too exhausted to try to make it to the bathroom, but he was a determined big brother and wouldn't let himself rest until he'd made sure that Sam hadn't cut himself too deeply or needed stitches.

Wordlessly, Sam handed over the kit and the towels and sat himself back down in his chair. Dean draped a few towels over his lap, then took Sam's hand and probed the wound.

"Doesn't need stitches," Dean assessed. "But it was a damn foolish place to cut yourself. Hand wounds always take a long time to heal." He poured peroxide over Sam's hand, watching it bubble and let the towels catch the excess liquid.

"So tell me about this plan you have," Dean asked as patted the wound dry and applied firm pressure to stop the bleeding.

"If we can bind Rebecca's spirit to something else, some object that can be destroyed, we can put her to rest. No need to burn the stairs or anything in the hotel."

"Sounds complicated," Dean said distractedly, checking the towel to see if the bleeding had stopped.

"Well, it's a little involved, but we've done things that are more complex than this is," Sam explained and he began elaborating on the plan until he realized that Dean wasn't really listening.

Dean wrapped his hand carefully, shaking his head as he worked. "You shouldn't have done this, Sam," he said for the second time.

"It's not a big deal, Dean," Sam said. "You'd have done the same for me."

Dean stared at Sam as if to say, _Yeah, but that's different_, and then shoved the wet towels and first aid kit into Sam's lap. "Here, you take care of this, Sasquatch. I'm going to get some well deserved rest."

Sam snorted as he stood with the wet towels and first aid box. "Wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep."

o0o00O00o0o

Though it felt like this day had gone on forever, it was only a little after nine pm. Dean had dozed lightly, but couldn't find real sleep. Sam had watched him try a range of sleeping positions until he finally gave up and turned on the television, flipping through various channels with disinterest.

Sam thought that maybe things would be okay now, that Rebecca really couldn't get past the sigils, until Dean clicked off the TV and went to the balcony.

He stared out through the tall glass doors for a long time as if searching for something in the darkness and then he started pacing, slow, deliberate steps. Sam knew Dean was beyond beat, that he had no energy left to waste on pacing. But he suspected that Rebecca did, had nothing _but_ pent-up energy.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, voice filled with dread.

"Why are we still here?" he asked, pausing his stride to look over at Sam. "I had everything packed."

The color drained from Sam's face and he stood, approaching his brother carefully. "Are you still with me, Dean?"

"Of course I am, Sam," Dean said with a patented Dean-smirk. But then he said, "We've got to hurry up. I can't stand this waiting around," and went back to pacing. "This place is like a prison. It's been five years and it feels like I've been trapped here for an eternity."

And, _ohgodohgod_, this was _horrific_. Sam's plan was backfiring spectacularly in his face. This was Dean _and_ Rebecca _simultaneously_. For some reason the blood sigils were both working and _not_ working— Dean was still there, all right, but Rebecca was too.

"Hey, are you all right?" Dean asked, concerned eyes trained on his brother. But before Sam could say anything, he said, "Please. Let me come with you."

"No— Dean, it's happening again," Sam said.

"Is it Robert?" Dean asked, coming to a standstill in front of Sam.

At a total loss, Sam stared at Dean, eyes wide, swallowing compulsively, his throat suddenly dry. All of a sudden breathing became difficult. _I did this to him_, Sam thought. _With those stupid blood sigils._

"Sam, _breathe,_" Dean commanded, gripping his shoulders. "Don't do this to me."

A shaky chuckle escaped Sam, and he didn't know whether to laugh harder or cry. "Don't do this to _you_? Dean, she's got you again."

"What are you talking about, Sam?" Dean asked, but his breath was becoming labored and he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Fucking headache," he said with a soft groan.

Things were quickly escalating out of control—

"Let go of him, you bitch," Sam hissed.

Dean's face twisted with alarm and he looked like he might cry. "Why are you saying these things to me?" A trickle of blood seeped from his nose. Rebecca's upset was making _Dean_ upset.

"Okay, okay, just relax," Sam said, attempting to placate both Dean and Rebecca. "Sit down," Sam said ushering Dean to the bed.

_I need to be calm and form a plan_, Sam thought, trying not to loose it.

The book he'd been reading earlier had a section on ghost possession and Sam moved across the room to the table where he'd left it.

"Are you leaving me?" Dean asked, his words low, barely above a whispered. "Don't go."

Sam stopped mid-stride, unsure who was in control now. It scared him that he couldn't tell.

"Please. I can't take it," Dean said, voice hitching. "I've wasted so much time, Sam. And I'm sorry for that. I just can't seem to get it together."

This _was_ his brother talking, Sam realized, but it wasn't their situation he was talking about. Dean thought Sam was leaving because Warren had left Rebecca at The Addison one last time right before she was killed. Dean was completely intertwined with Rebecca, stitching her reality into his, feeling _her_ emotions.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said, walking back to his brother.

"You will," Dean said despondently. He put his head in his hand, rubbing at his forehead with a grimace.

"Listen to me, Dean," Sam said, crouching down low to look up into Dean's face. "Rebecca must have felt something in you that mirrored her own anxiety, which is how she latched onto you— it's how she latched onto all her victims— but Rebecca is making you feel this way— her distress is making you upset."

"No, Sam," Dean insisted. "You don't know— _you don't know!"_ He pounded his fist against his thigh. Visibly, Dean tried to reel in his anger.

It was very clear to Sam that Rebecca was aggravating whatever inner worry that Dean had. Her presence in him magnified his fear, blowing it up so big that it was all Dean could see, a devastating burden weighing down on him.

Telling Dean that what he was feeling wasn't _actually_ what _he_ was feeling was condescending at best. Still, Sam had to make him understand.

"Dean, you're all mixed up," Sam said, his voice low, trying to be gentle in its assertion. "Somehow your emotions and hers are overlapping, but they're not the same."

Eyes pressed tightly, Dean shook his head. "No, no—."

"You keep talking about wasted time— and I know, well, I think I know what you mean, but it's _her_, Dean. Her time is over, but yours is not."

"It's your time," Dean said, looking up at him, hazel eyes locked onto Sam's brown.

"What do you mean?"

"It's your time that's wasting, Sam," Dean said quietly. "I've been wasting it since Dad—," and he stopped there because he still couldn't quite wrap his brain around the phrase _Dad died_. "I have to save you," he said, his voice determined despite its shaking. "I have to."

"Dean—."

"Don't go away to Nevada again," Dean implored, heartbreak on his face. "You're all I have."

Dean was so entangled with Rebecca that Sam wondered if his mind would ever right itself. The spells of confusion were becoming more frequent than the moments of lucidity.

"It was Warren who went away to Nevada," Sam said quietly, trying to force calm into his quickly escalating breath. "Not me. I'm not going anywhere."

Gently, Sam placed his hands on Dean's knees, squeezed tenderly and swept them up his thigh and back in a consoling gesture.

Frustrated, Dean pushed his palms against his forehead again. "I'm losing my mind, Sam." He blew out a slow breath. "Really felt like you were leaving."

"Are you back with me, Dean?" Sam asked, hands still resting on his knees.

"Think so," he said. "Still— struggling a little," he said. "You're really not going?"

"No, I'm really not," Sam said with a small smile.

"Okay," Dean said, and it made Sam's heart swell because he knew Dean still _felt_ anxious about it, but he trusted his word all the same.

"I think we should bind her right away," Sam said. "I'll figure out what we need to—."

"Your plan's not going to work, Sam," Dean interrupted.

"How do you know? We haven't even tried," Sam replied.

"You're not going to be able to bind her to something else," Dean said, with a sigh. He looked away, not meeting his brother's eyes. "Because she's already bound herself to me."

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Again, sorry this chapter is late! There's only one more to go after this, I think (unless I get terribly long-winded in chapter 8). What else? Oh, I have a crack!fic in the works. More on that next week.

Thanks for your comments and reviews :) I love hearing from you guys. I don't know about you, but I'm certainly enjoying SPN on two nights a week here in the states (Thurs and Sun) during hiatus.

Questions? Comments? Ask/tell me!

Other things: You can also read this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

o0o00O00o0o

_The Addison Hotel_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Eight

"You knew the blood sigils wouldn't work," Sam said, his voice soft as realization sunk in. But when he looked up into his brother's face, his eyes blazed fury.

"I didn't know _for sure_ that they wouldn't work," Dean replied without regret. "But, yeah, I suspected that they wouldn't."

"How long have you known that she'd bound herself to you?" Sam demanded. His voice was forced calm which only betrayed the storm that was about to come.

"Only a few hours," Dean said with a shrug.

Sam shook his head, turning his face away from Dean and stood abruptly. He was seething, Dean could tell, simmering at his edges, just about ready to explode.

"Don't you think that a spirit binding herself to you is something you should tell your brother?" Sam asked.

"Um, no?" Dean replied, bracing himself.

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam shouted. He took two steps away, stopped abruptly then wheeled around towards Dean, mouth opened, and then shut. He took two steps back, then stopped again unable to decide which barb to throw.

"There's nothing you could have done about it," Dean said. "There was no point in telling you—."

"No point? Rebecca could be permanently sealed inside you because of those sigils!" Sam shouted.

"That's unlikely, Sam," Dean said quietly.

"Why do you think that?" Sam asked angrily. "How could you keep something like this from me?" And beneath the wrath, Dean heard a level of hurt in his voice.

"It's not like that," Dean said, gesturing in frustration. "What do you want from me, Sam? I told you before that I've been having trouble keeping her separate, knowing her edges from mine— it didn't seem so out of place that she was there."

Sam stared at him, anger giving way to something else. He pushed his hands over his face, bracing both sides of his forehead. "God, Dean. I don't know what to do," he said, throat swallowing back panic. _"I don't know what to do."_

"Hey, easy there, Sammy," Dean said, rising from the bed. He grabbed Sam by the arm and ushered him to sit in his place.

"Thought I had it figured out," Sam said, letting out a shaky chuckle. "Wouldn't be the hardest thing we've ever done, binding a spirit to a different object. But we can't now— not when she's bound to a living person— _to you— _we can't—_ we can't—."_

"It'll be okay, Sam," Dean said with a frown, worrying for his little brother's sanity.

"_How?"_ Sam ground out. "How will it be okay? In two seconds you could be gone again and she could be back— maybe permanently." With his elbows propped up on his lap, Sam dropped his head in his hands, the picture of despair.

It was true; Dean couldn't control when Rebecca would manifest. Maybe with time he could learn to build up defenses and block her from taking control, but Dean didn't think he could stand a prolonged period of time with a head-mate.

And he knew Sam couldn't. His whole life, Dean had always played a very specific role: protector. It really pained Sam to see Dean broken in this way.

_Probably still thinks it's his fault,_ Dean realized.

Sam didn't need to be taken care of anymore— he didn't even want to be— but there was an innate sense of comfort that Dean gave him. If Sam ever needed anything, _anything at all,_ Dean would provide it, and this unspoken truth gave him strength.

A part of Dean would always need to be needed and it was this part that put a small smile on his face, and brought his hands to rest on Sam's shoulders.

"Rebecca knows how to end it," Dean said. "She's always known the one way she could be at rest."

Sam looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"She has to confess her secret," Dean said. "Nothing else is gonna work, Sam. That's the only way."

"But she's been trying to do that since before we got here," Sam said. "So far she's been doing a real bang up job."

"That's only 'cause of Robert," Dean replied, letting his hands fall to his sides. "We know about him now. We know all kinds things now that we didn't know before— there are two spirits, Rebecca's not the murdering one and there's a baby involved."

"So what are you getting at, Dean?" Sam asked.

"We had the right idea by trying to summon her," Dean said. "We need to try again."

"Are you _nuts?"_ Sam asked. "You nearly _died_ when we tried that."

"Don't you get it, Sam?" Dean asked. "You're the one Rebecca needs to tell whatever it is that she needs to confess. _You_ have to remember what she says, not me. You're the witness."

"Wait, a minute—."

"Besides, you're better at the sympathy thing than I am anyway," Dean said.

"Dean, if you're suggesting—."

"She needs a person to inhabit," Dean said simply.

Sam knew the instant that Dean said it that he meant to do it himself.

"No. Absolutely, not," Sam said, shaking his head, gearing up to categorically refuse to let Dean follow through with this idiotic notion. "She could kill you this time, Dean— or Robert could."

"Look, I'm not too keen on taking another pratfall down those stairs, but she chose me, Sam." Dean's voice dropped to just above a whisper. "I'm the best option for this and you know it."

And Sam did know it. Dean was probably the only person in the whole hotel that Rebecca would fly to without provocation.

"We've been protecting the wrong person," Dean continued. "We shouldn't be trying to protect me from Rebecca— we should be protecting you from Robert."

"So your plan is, what? To go back to the stairs and try to summon her and hope that she'll tell me what's on her mind?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Dean said with a shrug.

"Do you know what a long shot that is?" Sam asked him.

"She'll go for it, Sam," Dean said. "I know she will."

o0o00O00o0o

Making no attempt to hide his concern for Dean, Sam unabashedly tracked his brother around the hotel room, watching him gather supplies for the summoning ritual and load the shotgun with salt rounds.

Dean stilled suddenly, pressing his eyes together then blinked a few times. He needed undisturbed, natural sleep, but had sidestepped all of Sam's attempts to get him to relax.

The Addison hunt had to be put to rest this night. Sam didn't want to think about what another day of living with Rebecca would do to his brother.

"You need to rest," Sam said finally, when he couldn't stand to watch Dean's foolish stubbornness anymore. "Restore your energy."

"No," Dean replied. "If I rest, I think she'll take over again. My exhaustion is keeping her at bay— not enough juice to power us both."

"You look like you're about to drop," Sam remarked.

"I'll be okay," Dean said. "Order me up some coffee and I'll be good to go."

"I can make you some here," Sam said, moving towards the sink where the coffee maker sat. He plugged it in and filled the reservoir in the back of the maker with water then dumped the pre-measured packet of coffee into the filter cup. The machine hissed to life as it heated the water.

Sam was glad to do something so mundane and ordinary as making coffee for his brother. As he watched the dark liquid percolate down into the small glass pot, Sam was struck by the notion that this was the most normal thing he'd done for Dean in a long time.

_Earlier it was blood sigils and right now it's coffee and later it will be summoning rituals,_ he thought. _All par for the course for the Winchester brothers._

Pouring two cups, Sam set the coffee down on the table and Dean actually joined him there, sitting across from Sam like it was Sunday morning breakfast at the Cleaver's. The normality of it nearly made Sam burst into a fit of laughter— or tears.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean said, taking a sip from the cup placed before him.

Dean liked his coffee strong and black, but Sam liked his just the opposite, sweet and light. Sometimes Sam wondered about this. Was it simply preference or was it a habit born out of giving his little brother his share of milk and sugar? Dean would say, _Black coffee's a man's drink— sweet and light is for girls, Samantha. _

Sam glanced at his brother across the table. As if he could read Sam's thoughts, Dean rolled his eyes and smirked into his cup.

"What?"

"I'm sure I don't want to know whatever deep, brooding thoughts you got knocking around in there," Dean said. "Just quit it, okay?"

Suddenly, Sam realized just how tired he was, getting maudlin over coffee. And if he was tired, Dean must be beyond exhausted. He breathed out a chuckle, and then took in a slow breath, trying to force himself to loosen up.

Sam was eager to get going, but for once Dean was content to wait. They had everything they needed to summon Rebecca and they would go as soon as Dean was ready. He knew this, but so far he hadn't said he was ready yet.

"It's my turn," Dean announced, putting his cup on the tabletop and reaching over for the weapons bag.

"Your turn to what?" Sam asked, eying him wearily.

"My turn to draw on you," Dean said, retrieving a small blade from the duffle with a grin. "Payback's a bitch." He didn't look entirely sane holding up a knife with a face splitting smile, but Sam realized that he probably _wasn't_ entirely sane with Rebecca roaming around upstairs.

"Do you really think that's such a good idea?" Sam asked. "It didn't work for you."

"Well, I was already Looney Tunes before you tried it," Dean said with a shrug. "You had the right idea, Sam. This should protect you from Robert."

Sam sighed, but knew better than to protest. Dean had precious little energy left and Sam wasn't going to waste it squabbling with him over details.

Sam plopped down on his bed, pulling his t-shirt overhead. "The book's on the table," Sam said, nodding in its direction. Dean took a moment to examine the sigils before shoving the book into Sam's hands saying, "Here, make yourself useful."

Drawing the blade over his forearm, Dean forced a trail of blood along his flesh and then bent over Sam's shoulder to double check the first sigil before sketching the protective seal onto his back.

Dean wasn't as familiar with this set of sigils as Sam was and he made slow, careful work of copying the symbols onto his brother. Sam sat patiently under Dean's deliberate but devoted hands.

"Why do you think Rebecca keeps mistaking me for Warren and not Robert?" Sam asked thoughtfully. "I mean, Robert did possess me before."

"Because she loves Warren and—," Dean began without thinking and then abruptly stopped, hands stilled mid-arc. "She just does," Dean said and went back to drawing the sigils.

A small smile crept onto Sam's face as he finished the thought. _Because she loves Warren and you love me._

Rebecca had recognized many parallels between herself and Dean, which was exactly why she choice Dean in the first place. His brother kept his true emotions mostly to himself, though if anyone could find a way through the facade, it was Sam.

But Sam didn't always know what was going on in Dean's head and lately, before this Addison business, at times Sam felt like there was a stranger in the car next to him. The secret their dad had dumped on Dean was a backbreaking weight, not unlike the albatross Rebecca had hung around her own neck.

The heartbreak and utter hopelessness that Rebecca had ripped from Dean made Sam churn uneasily. Just like the shapeshifter hadn't been Dean, Sam knew those words and emotions weren't necessarily his brother's, but it was difficult not to ache for him when it was _his_ voice quivering in misery and _his_ face filled with despair and when there were so many parallels between Rebecca and Dean.

Dean had always shielded them both, even when Sam knew his brother was hurting, Dean played it off like nothing could hurt him, not even Sam. Though Dean would never admit to it, when Sam had left for Stanford and broke ties with his family it had wounded him down to the bone. Left unheeded, the wound had bled for a long time, turning bitter and poisonous to his spirit.

They'd come a long way in the many months since then, slowly rebuilding their fractured relationship on the road, but the damage could not be entirely undone, emotional scar tissue marking a weak spot in Dean's heart.

It was the grief-stricken pleading that Sam couldn't take, made his heart wrench and bleed in his chest. The inconsolable supplication asking him not to leave, though words Dean had never said aloud to him before he went to Stanford, was a previously unspoken desire that Dean had been praying for all along. Sam had always known it, could tell in all the ways his brother spoke to him without words, but he had left anyway. He thought Dean understood now why Sam had needed to go, but the fear of being discarded that Sam's leaving had created would probably never go away.

Sam could not help but feel a bit protective of Dean, wanting to erase the unguarded pain in his eyes.

"All done," Dean said, his voice startling Sam from his thoughts. Stepping back from Sam, he retrieved a towel from the bathroom and pressed it to the cut on his arm.

Sam reached for his shirt, but Dean said, "Hey, no messing up the artwork. Give it a minute to dry."

"I really want to get started," Sam said. "There's no reason to wait."

Dean winced suddenly, drawing in a sharp breath.

"Dean?" Sam asked, concern creasing his features.

Dean shook his head as if to ward him off, then winced again, doubling over. Sam closed the short distance between them in seconds, gripping Dean by the shoulders.

"_Sam,"_ he said sharply, pushing his palms against his forehead. "I think she's—."

"Fight her, Dean," Sam said. "Don't let her." It was too soon. They weren't ready for her to appear here. It had to be on the stairwell, where Rebecca had tried to confess many times before, where she'd been killed, where her murder still lingered.

"Not so easy," Dean replied.

"Come on, man," Sam said. "Stay with me."

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, his face wrought with confusion. If Dean was lost to her now, he may not have the strength to channel her later for the ritual. Sam couldn't let that happen.

Sam tightened his grip and said, "You're Dean Winchester. You're my brother and I'm not going anywhere and neither are you."

Dean looked away, eyes darting with fear and uncertainty.

"Eyes on me," Sam commanded, sliding his hands up to rest at the base of Dean's neck. "Don't let her take you. You know who you are. You know I'm your brother."

Sam could see him actively struggling, trying to fight the confusion. "You're my brother," Dean said slowly. "You're Sam—."

"And you're Dean," Sam said.

"I'm— I'm Dean," he repeated. "I'm Dean." He blew out a slow breath. _"Jesus_. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Me either," Sam confessed. "You okay?"

"For now," Dean replied. He stepped back from Sam, edging himself into a chair. "We have to try again."

"Maybe I should handle this myself," Sam said. "She might be strong enough now to manifest corporeally."

"You really think that's going to work?" Dean asked, pinning him with a skeptical stare. "After all I've been through there's no way in hell I'm not seeing it through to the end."

"You ready then?" Sam asked him.

"As I'll ever be," Dean said, a grin sliding onto his face.

o0o00O00o0o

It seemed like a lifetime ago when they had first tried to summon Rebecca in the ninth floor stairwell. A week hadn't even passed since then, Sam marveled as he followed Dean through the hotel corridors, carrying their gear to the accident site.

The ninth floor was just as it had been then: eerily quiet. With four people having had fatal or near fatal accidents, everyone seemed to have gotten the message to stay away from the ninth floor.

_Not us, though_, Sam thought as they walked silently down the deserted hallway. _Winchesters never say die._

Dean pushed open the door leading to the stairwell and peered cautiously into the enclosed space. The lights were on, electricity working just fine, and warm light illuminated the empty area. Nothing was waiting for them on the short span of wooden hallway before the start of the stairs.

Sam would freely admit that he dreaded going in there, after all he was the one with the memories of finding his brother sprawled lifelessly at the bottom of the staircase.

If Dean had any reservations, he didn't let them be known. "You ready?" Dean asked him quietly, mirroring his question from last time.

Sam nodded his reply and pushed past Dean into the stairwell corridor.

They set to work, falling into familiar roles; Sam drew a chalk circle on the floorboards while Dean found the north most point of the circle and set a candle there. But then Dean took the canister of salt and traced a thick line along the chalk circle.

"Robert's not getting to you this time," Dean said as he worked.

Sam finished their preparations by drawing a triangle to the east of the circle and then picked up the spell book to read. They didn't need the diary to channel Rebecca, but Sam had brought it anyway just in case and took that out of the bag as well.

Strong and clear, Sam recited the Latin incantation. Dean waited patiently by his side, eyes scanning for any signs of wayward spirits. Just like before, nothing seemed to be happening.

"She needs me," Dean said softly. He glanced up at Sam, saying, "Whatever happens, stay inside the circle," and he moved to step over the salt line.

Sam grabbed his arm, but it was the look in his eyes that held Dean in place. _Don't be hurt. Don't do this. I'm worried for you. Be careful. _ "I don't like this," was all he said.

"I know you got my back, Sammy," Dean replied and crossed the salt circle.

It was instantaneous. As soon as he was clear of the protection circle, Dean staggered a little, then turned back to face Sam.

Traces of Rebecca were transparent over Dean, like a double exposed negative. For an instant Sam could see her face more clearly than he could see Dean's, but she receded back a little, flickering in her semi-corporeal state.

Dean raised a shaking hand to his head, fingers massaging his forehead as he glanced around the stairwell as if truly seeing it for the first time.

There wasn't any more time to waste. This was Sam's one chance to right everything.

"Rebecca," Sam said, addressing his trembling brother. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're Sam," he said and Rebecca made Dean's voice soften when he spoke his name. "You're his Sam."

"Yes, that's right," Sam said. "I want to help you, Rebecca, but you've got to work with me."

"You can't help me. Warren left me here again and I don't think he's coming back," Dean said, looking around as if maybe Warren was there and would prove her wrong.

"You're dead, Rebecca," Sam said bluntly. "You died eighty years ago."

Dean's eyes went back to his and he said quietly, "Robert pushed me."

All of a sudden, Sam felt something trying to drive through the barrier of salt to get at him. Dean took a frightened step back, too close to the staircase for Sam's liking.

"_He's_ here," he said. "He wants to stop me."

"He can't hurt you anymore," Sam said. "Not if you don't let him."

"No, he will— _he will_." Rebecca was becoming panic-stricken and it unnerved Sam to hear the hysteria manifest in his brother's voice.

"I know what happened to you," Sam said, keeping his voice calm and commanding. "I know that it was no accident. I know that you were pregnant when you died."

Dean's eyes widened and he whispered, "You know?"

"Dean figured it out. He realized it when you took possession of him and he told me," Sam said. "We know that you were pregnant and that Robert pushed you down the stairs to kill your baby." That last part was a guess, but it was a guess that fit. "But Rebecca, you can be at rest now."

Dean shook his head disbelievingly and Sam realized that there was something else that needed to be known.

"What is it?" Sam asked. "What else?"

But Dean was frozen, his face literally white, bloodless, Rebecca's fear of Robert a nearly tangible thing.

The lights flickered menacingly and the temperature in the stairwell dropped to freezing cold. Robert's spirit continued to force its way through the protection circle. Sam wasn't secure in the knowledge that even if Robert did manage to get through, that the blood sigils would protect him from the murderous spirit— they hadn't helped Dean any.

Robert couldn't get past the salt line, but that did not stop him from trying to get to Sam. The floorboards beneath him started to vibrate, shaking from the wrath of this volatile spirit.

Dean swayed suddenly, catching himself on the banister and looked as though he might pass out.

"Dean, hold on!" Sam said, helplessly. If Sam crossed that salt line, Robert would get him. He knew Robert was trying to make him leave the protection circle of his own will, trying to rattle Rebecca enough to get Sam to help his brother.

_Robert is tied to Rebecca just as Rebecca is tied to the stairwell_, Sam thought, _and now Dean is tied to Rebecca._ _If she could just be put to rest, Robert would be too, and then Dean will be free. _

"Rebecca," Sam shouted, his breath coming out in a white puff. "Don't be afraid—."

Blood trickled from Dean's nose; he was sweating despite the cold but shivered visibly from where Sam stood. He was going to collapse any minute now, his body finally giving way to exhaustion.

Sam had no doubt in his mind that Robert would possess him the second he left the salt circle. He would be forced to push Dean down the stairs again. Dean would definitely not survive another fall and Rebecca would never be at rest—

She still hadn't been able to tell him what she needed.

"Rebecca, this is your one chance," Sam called to her, instilling authority in his voice that would have made John Winchester proud. "Tell me now!"

Dean's head snapped up, eyes clear, and for a second, Sam thought maybe his brother was back in control of himself, but then Rebecca's ghost was visible again. With her own eyes, she stared at Sam for a long moment before recessing back to Dean.

"I made a terrible mistake," he said quietly, "and I thought I could make it right. I'm so sorry." Dean let out a slow breath and it billowed visibly around him. "He doesn't want you to know— he doesn't want anyone to know. He's so angry," he said.

The wooden planks beneath Sam's feet shook violently and the salt around the circle began to vibrate and scatter. The line wasn't broken, but it would be soon.

"I know he is," Sam began, "but don't be afraid—."

"Robert is so angry," Dean said again, "because the baby's not his."

Suddenly everything stopped moving. The lights still flickered but at a less frantic pace. Sam's eyes were fixed on Dean as he waited with bated-breath for the rest of Rebecca's confession.

"I was only just starting to show," he said, hands moving down just below his navel, cradling the non-existent baby. Dean smiled then, ruefully. "Warren and I, we reconciled just before he went away again, but I was still afraid he would leave me for good."

_Things are better today. He and I have reconciled, _Sam remembered. Dean had found that entry in Rebecca's diary hours before they tried to summon her the first time.

"When I realized that I was pregnant, I knew I had to end things with Robert. This was a chance at a family and I wasn't about to blow it."

_The wasted time…_ Sam thought, fitting the pieces into place.

"Robert was furious that I wanted to end it, just as I knew he would be," he said, his smile wavering. "But it was the baby that drove him into a murderous rage."

Sam remembered how much Dean had loathed Robert just from reading a few scant entries from the diary. He'd been able to peg exactly the kind of man Robert had been.

"Didn't like that his _property_ had been unfaithful, even if it was to my own husband," Dean continued. "Couldn't stand the idea that it was another man's baby, although he had no intention of leaving his wife for me. It was that I had dared defy him, that and his own jealousy. He wanted to control everything, even who lived or died."

Even in death, Robert had played God, silencing Rebecca's cries by killing others, still lording over her after nearly eighty years.

"I don't know that he meant to kill me," Dean said. "He wanted to hurt me— probably wanted to make me miscarry." He smiled sadly. "I guess he got what he wanted."

Blinking furiously, Dean's eyes filled with tears. "He killed my baby," he whispered, face twisting with grief.

Rebecca's staggering anguish made Sam's own eyes water, but until she was finished he could make no move towards his brother.

"God, what Warren must have thought of me— we never got our second chance," Dean said. He swayed again, stumbling back a few steps away from Sam.

"Warren loved you," Sam said.

"Did he?" Dean's face drew up in pain.

"Yes. He wanted to have a family. He built a house for you in Nevada. He even had flowers placed on your grave every week until the day he died."

"I didn't know," Dean whispered, trying to ward off tears. "I was stuck here, in this awful place."

"You can be at rest now, Rebecca," Sam said. "You can have peace."

Dean's face was white, the blood dripping from his nose stark against his pallid skin. Sam knew that it was only Dean's sheer stubbornness that kept him from collapsing.

"Nobody knew about my baby, not even Warren," he said. "I never told him. I didn't want him to feel trapped. I wanted him to want me— to want us."

Warren had been away for the entire pregnancy, not only trying to finish the preparations for the Nevada hotel, but also building that house for Rebecca, a surprise that he never got to give her.

Abruptly, Rebecca was visible again, her round face imploring as she asked, "Will you tell him? Will you make sure he knows about his baby?"

"Yes," Sam said instantly. "Everyone will know that your baby existed. I'll make sure of it."

Rebecca looked at him through Dean's eyes, tears glistening in them and said, "I believe you will."

Suddenly Dean's eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched backwards towards the stairs as Rebecca left him.

Sam lunged after him, breaking the protection circle of salt, grabbed fistfuls of his sweat soaked shirt and pulled Dean tightly to him, whispering to his unconscious brother, "I got you, Dean. I got you."

o0o00O00o0o

The Impala turned right off the main road, following a smaller, tree-lined street until making another right into a well-shaded parking lot.

"What are we dong here?" Dean asked as the Impala rolled into Welwood Murray Cemetery where the Addisons were interred. It was a rare instance when Dean was in the passenger seat of the Impala, but Sam had out-muscled him for the keys, forbidding him to drive until he was back up to par.

"I have a promise to keep," Sam said simply.

The brothers got out of the car and walked in silence to the site where Rebecca's ashes and Warren's remains were buried.

Dean lingered back a ways, allowing Sam to have his moment at the Addison plot. He watched his brother stop before the headstones and crouch down low, head bowed in silent prayer.

Dean wasn't too clear about the details of what had transpired in that stairwell and hadn't pressed Sam for many details. Robert was gone and so was Rebecca, both spirits haunting the Addison put to rest.

Dean had woken nearly sixteen hours later in their hotel room to find Sam lying next to him on his bed, eyes red with hours of worry and unrest. Dean had only shadows of Sam's conversation with Rebecca and absolutely no recollection at all of Sam carrying him back to their room or the hours of vigilant waiting.

Opening his eyes slowly, Dean had taken one look at Sam and said, "Rough night, sweetheart?"

"You're an ass," Sam had replied, but rolled in towards Dean, nestling his forehead against his shoulder. Even in Dean's fatigued state he had still felt the utter relief radiating from his little brother.

"Hey," Dean had said. "We okay?"

Sam had lifted his head a little, craning to catch his brother's eye. "We are now," he said, setting back down next to Dean, fingers curling around his arm. He'd known Sam was too tired to see it, so Dean had smiled at Sam's unabashed affection before falling back into sleep.

They slept for another ten hours, Sam jostling them awake saying that if they got up now they could make check out and get the hell out of this damn hotel.

Dean watched Sam kneeling in front of the graves. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but Sam's sincere tone carried back to him in the wind. It was just like Sam to take everything to heart, but this time Dean understood it, probably more intimately than Sam did.

Rebecca was a thought his mind kept returning to. Dean was still all twisted up with her, but he knew she would soon fade; the niche she'd carved out would smooth over and it would be as if she never was. Still, Dean couldn't help but wonder about her eighty years of strife.

It was no accident that she had chosen him as her vessel. Dean could not deny the parallels between them. It was almost as if by showing him her mistakes, she was showing him where he would wreck if he continued traveling down this path. _Don't do what I did, Dean. Don't let secrets destroy you and don't be afraid to confess them._

Maybe that's why John had placed such a burden on Dean. Secrets kept from family and loved ones fester over time, rotting the heart from the inside out, and haunting the decaying remains for long afterward.

It scared him, losing control, giving it up, especially when it was _Sam_ that was on the line. The past few days Rebecca had taken any semblance of control out of his hands, giving Dean a real taste of helplessness, but Sam had picked up the slack and together they had come through it.

"We did all right, Rebecca," Dean whispered.

There was still a long way to go, the road that stretched out before them extensive and uncertain. Dean didn't know what would happen with Sam and the other special children. Nothing was certain, save for one thing. Whatever happened, Dean would be standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother— together, on the front line.

Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, Dean crossed the short distance, joining Sam beside the graves. Sam glanced up at him as he approached, but remained silent.

"Got to make sure that baby gets recognition," Dean said quietly.

It was the most important thing to Rebecca, more important than having her killer be known— she'd forged a bond with the baby over her short five-month pregnancy and mourned that Warren had never known about his child.

"We'll go to Millie next," Sam replied, coming to a stand beside his brother. "Tell her what happened. I'm sure she'll want to put a marker up or at least add mention of the baby to the headstone."

With a final glance at the Addison plot, the brothers started the quick walk back to the car. Sam took a sidelong look at his brother. "When Rebecca had you," Sam began, "could you— did you—."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "Strange to feel something like that inside you."

"That's how you knew she was pregnant," Sam said. "You felt it."

"She wasn't really mine," Dean explained, shooting a quick look over at Sam. "She belonged to me for only a few scattered moments, but I held her, you know?"

"She?" Sam asked, eyebrows shoot up.

"Rebecca felt the baby was a girl," Dean said. "So did I."

Sam smiled gently, but then he ducked his head and his smile widened into a broad grin.

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"Man, you were pregnant with a ghost's baby."

"Oh no," Dean said, shaking his head. "No way, dude. Doesn't count."

"It _so_ counts!"

"Don't be jealous, Samantha," Dean said, his eyes full of mischief. "It's too bad this sorry incident is the closest that you'll ever come to motherhood, bitch."

"Jerk!" Sam shouted, punching Dean in the arm, but he was laughing as he got into the Impala.

Opening the passenger side door, Dean paused before getting in, surveying the cemetery grounds over the roof of the car with a final look towards Rebecca's grave as he half-listened to Sam's teasing from the inside the car— something about _driver_ and _music_ and _shotgun_ and _cakehole_.

Things weren't perfect, but at this moment, they were close.

_Fin_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's notes:

So, that's it guys, my first SPN fic. I can't believe that it's all done! Big THANKS everybody for reading and commenting :) I really appreciate all the readers and reviews more than I can say. I'm really enjoying the Supernatural fandom, and a big part of it is because of all the wonderful people that I have met through fanfic and fanart!

I just wanted to note that the original inspiration for this fic came from reading a book about ghost hauntings waaaaay back in November 2006. I read a one liner about the namesake of the Dorrington Inn Hotel, Rebecca Dorrington, taking a fatal fall down the staircase of her hotel. I saw the potential for a SPN fic there and began fleshing out the story. I made up everything about Rebecca and her family, only keeping her first name in her honor. I did not want to write fictitiously about a real person.

Also, I have a crack!fic in the works. It's an unabashed hurt!Dean and worried!Sam crack!fic. I don't want to spill the details of the crack just yet, though. The tone is a lot different from this story, has more of a horror feel to it and will probably be rated M. Keep a look out for it in the next few weeks.

Thanks so much everybody! I love hearing from you guys, so drop me a line every now and then.

Other things: You can also read this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading.

- Li


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